In 1989, I found myself shining boots, getting ready for the DI’s to inspect our beds, foot lockers, and the creases in our BDU’s. They wanted a shine on the toe of the boot where they could see themselves when they smiled. They wanted to see the outline of their Smokey Bear hat. Anything less was unacceptable.
“Perfection is the minimum,” said one sergeant.
The other sergeant just grimaced and tossed boots randomly as he smiled, enjoying the chaos, “Your momma’s aren’t here to make your beds and wipe your noses for you,” he’d scream as a bed would tip over, leaving the sheets and green blankets in shambles on the floor. “Remake that shit.”
Later that night I had guard duty, which meant standing by a metal door with a small, thick glass window, and if anyone showed without proper ID, I denied them entry. One Sergeant showed at the door, the skinny one who, even in my nineteen year old brain, was compensating for something he lacked, or maybe it was the caterpillar, hitler sized mustache that covered part of his upper lip.
He banged on the door, “Let me in you slimy piece of shit!”
“Sir, I need to see some identification.”
“You little fuck! Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t have any right to question me.”
“Sir, I need to see some identification.”
He slammed an ID against the window but it was a library card.
“Sir, I need to see the proper military identification.”
“You stupid fuck! I am going to strangle your ass when I get in there.” The skinny DI became irate, even more so than when I saw him tossing beds. This seemed more real and not rehearsed. He then slammed another ID, his drivers license against the window.
“Sir, I need to see proper military identification.”
“I am going to have you locked up for denying an order!” He slammed his fist so hard against the window it broke.
“Don’t let him in,” I heard someone whisper from around the corner where Thirty-eight young men were sitting on the edge of their beds waiting to see how far this would go and if I would break and let him in without proper ID.
“You are done you little son of a bitch! Done!” The skinny DI stormed off. The taps on the bottom of his boots and my heavy breathing were the only sounds to be heard.
The main Drill Instructor, the one we were told was in charge, came to me later and called me into his office. I was questioned thoroughly, as were about ten other young men. He told me I did the right thing and that the skinny DI went too far when he broke the window. “You didn’t falter from your post. That’s good,” said the DI in charge. I have something else I need you to do.”
“Yes sir!” I answered.
“We have a recruit who is down in the dirtbag room. It came to our attention that he lied and is homosexual. I need you to go and get him, escort him to the showers so he can wash, and then escort him back. If he does anything out of the ordinary, tries to run, or anything, you have my permission to beat him.”
“Yes sir!”
I was shown where this young man was. It was a room we heard about, “The dirt bag room,” where recruits were sent when they were in trouble. It was a place we feared. The young man stood when the door opened. He had a bed, chair, no windows, and that was it. It looked like a jail cell to me. I escorted him to the showers where he could wash, brush his teeth, change his underwear and socks, and redress in his BDU’s to return to the dirt bag room.
As we walked, the young man looked frightened. He was pale, taller than me, and seemed to be trembling. We weren’t supposed to talk but I had to ask him, “How are you?”
The young man just shook his head, lips shaking, as was his hands.
“It will be okay,” I said, trying to reassure him, but I had no idea if he’d be okay or not.
After he was ready, which was six minutes, because I was told he got two-minutes to shower, two-minutes to brush his teeth, and two-minutes to dress, I escorted him back to the dirt bag room. He walked in and sat in the chair, still trembling after the hot shower and walking through the humid air. I wanted to help him.I wanted to ask him so many questions. At the time, I did not know many, if any, gay men. All I knew is what I heard. The stereotypes from friends and movies. Listening to my father talk poorly of homosexuals as I struggled through my adolescents. It occurred to me right then and there that I had been conditioned to fear and hate this person, this human who now sat in a room that was designated for “Dirt bags.” He looked at me through the glass window and I offered him a smile and nodded goodbye. Before I walked away, I looked down at his boots, which were so shiny his reflection showed. The standard the DI’s seemed to be looking for.
I turned and almost walked into the skinny DI who broke the window the night before. He looked me directly in the eye and as I looked back, I noticed there was one less stripe on his shirt. He said nothing, but walked to where the young man sat in the dirt bag room. I feared for the young man, being punished for something so ridiculous. I thought for a fleeting moment, “What if I were placed in that room because I loved my girlfriend?” I would be frightened too, but also angry, wanting to retaliate because someone was trying to tell me who I could and could not love.
Weeks later, I was traveling in a humvee, heading towards the field where we would spend the next several hours playing war games and conducting drills where we prepared for an attack from the Soviet Union. I happened to glance out the window and saw the young man who I once escorted to shower, brush his teeth, and get dressed, all within six-minutes. He was in what looked like pajamas walking through the green grass, putting dark soil in flower pots. He still trembled in fear.
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