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...