Meanest Man in The World

1

Thirty-eight years ago I was assigned to a basic-training company at Camp Roberts, a bleak and desolate area of the California high country.

         Two- hundred “east coasters” made the journey out there from Fort Meade, Maryland as a package deal, 175 of the group hailing from Philadelphia. Nearly all those city dudes had already selected their life’s vocations, carefully chosen careers to be resumed right after army stints were completed. They’d follow in the illustrious footsteps of their Dads, Grand-dads, cousins and Uncles; these glib-talkers from the asphalt jungle would become full-fledged members of the old Mafia! You know, knock over a few banks, run their own “strong-arm protection rackets,” pollute some labor unions, bump off a few rival gang leaders, etc.

         Undoubtedly every living person can recall the names of each and every school teacher who guided them through those “hallowed halls of learning.” And just as surely all ex-members of the military remember the names of cadremen who led them thru boot-camp.

         Teacher, and cadre. Two words with the exact same meaning, and yet with one slight difference. Think back to your strictest teacher, the very sternest one. Now multiply by 75…you have a U.S. Army cadreman of the 1950’s’

         Marine Corps drill-instructors are perhaps a tad more famous. But listen pal, the people I’ll be tellin’ you about played second-fiddle to no one, not even them there fancy dressed “jarheads.”

         Even after 4 decades the names come rolling back, and can still cause me to cringe and cower.

         First-Sergeant Lizotte, head of the rampaging pack of rabid wolves. Sergeants Bedard and Hopkins. Corporals Berg and Short. About 20 of ‘em in total, but I wish to single out one name for special attention. I could spend several months tellin’ about the villainous deeds of this primitive wildman.

         Sergeant First-Class (SFC) Brucato  ( Brew-Cot- Tow is the correct pronunciation ). His name, being a close approximation of brutal, was most fitting. This “thing” certainly wasn’t human, but rather a depraved animal who, incredibly, was allowed to remain uncaged and run at large. Cold, unfeeling, heartless, savage and totally without mercy. Come to think of it, all cadremen of Charlie Company fit that mold!

         My thoughts have often wandered back to Sergeant Brucato, wondering where “it” might be today. Wherever, I wanna’ steer clear of that location. A few clues have been forthcoming as to his whereabouts. I do believe I’ve spotted him many times playing starring roles in B-grade horror movies. Saves the studio money; it ain’t necessary to hire a makeup man!

         The beastly Brucato had one goal in life, a single purpose for existence. Namely, to dispense gross cruelty and large doses of misery on every recruit unfortunate enough to come under his command. Shucks man, “its” own mother couldn’t have been emotionally attached and no doubt disowned him at age one month. Surely everyone remembers that reptilian monstrosity who terrorized boaters in “Creature From the Black Lagoon.” Brucato was the model for that horrible, terrible-tempered mutant!

         Sergeant Herraro Brucato. A name that needs placing right alongside Pearl Harbor. Where it can live forever in infamy…

2

         Into the lives of every human there enters about 3 people with a curious and unique talent. Namely, a knack for raising ires and causing intense dislike in all persons they meet. No reason, apart from just lookin’ at ‘em, is needed. Ya’ merely gaze at these “unlikeables” and feel yerself totally engulfed with abhorrence. There is, as you well know, a phenomenon called “love at first sight.” The complete opposite is also true, though luckily it doesn’t happen often…a mere 3 times in a lifespan.

         Sergeant Brucato was the best example for me personally; ya’ had to know this animal to bestow on him the magnitude of hatred he so richly deserved.

         The rotund man with 5 stripes had a swarthy complexion, a muscular chest bedecked with ribbons earned during World War II, and a horrendously ugly face highlighted by a glistening black moustache.

         The moustache was always immaculately trimmed, each and every hirsute filament exactly in place. Herraro had a very noticeable habit of forever being preoccupied with that cultivated patch neath his proboscis. Preening, grooming, twisting the heavily waxed ends to sharpened points.

         ( I’ve had a moustache for put nigh 45 years, but have never spent one thin dime purchasing wax to make the durn thing glisten. And them narrow twisted ends ain’t my cuppa’ tea either. As for tonsorial care, I allow a barber to snip with scissors only about twice a year. I’ll be damned if I’ll  journey thru this life being preoccupied with a stupid moustache. There’s just so many other meaningful things into which one should funnel his time, efforts and energies.).

         Now then, it’s not right to hate without reason. A wretched attitude that gave me an uncomfortable feeling, caused me to feel cheap and dirty. But my worry began to cease within 48 hours after arriving at Camp Roberts. Receded, ebbed, fizzled, and dissipated entirely by the third day. Lo and behold, all 200 men of Charlie Company hated his guts! If such vehemence came natural for 199 others, then perhaps I wasn’t smitten with some unknown and freakish abnormality.

         But listen here podnuh, Brucato was a soldier extraordinaire, and I quickly determined that here was a uniformed entity who feared nothing. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind about the outcome, had it occurred, of a chance encounter between Sarge and Lucifer.The Devil would’ve turned tail and run like hell (no pun intended ). Skedaddled right on back down yonder to the burning embers of Hades!

         It’s well “couch taters” hadn’t yet arrived on the world scene of the 1950’s. Brucato would’ve  viewed those “spuds” with great disfavor, looked at ‘em with tons of disdain. It’s extremely unlikely any such taters might have survived 4 months under his stern and watchful eye…

3

         Sergeant Herraro A. Brucato used one nickname for every trainee under his command. A crude byword, it applied not just to each recruit in Charlie Company, but for every person residing on planet Earth at that time, and all alien intelligences scattered throughout the endless universe as well.

         “You old Buttcan,” he’d say in a voice filled with arrogance, flooded with derision, inundated with ridicule. Ladies and gentlemen, that was Sergeant Brucato’s evaluation of the human race as a whole. The ultimate    degradation, the Cadillac of “putdowns.”

         However, hearing him use the same nickname for all breathing creatures, whether earthling or Martian life-form, was easily understandable. You see, Herraro suffered a severe shortage of  oozy gray matter inside his brain-cage. About 1400 cc’s is what most folks have up there; Sarge had only 27 units of the stuff in his! Handling two nicknames simultaneously was way, way beyond his capabilities.

         Understand, I’m not implying Sergeant Bru wuz dumb. Just that he’d been short-changed 1373 cc’s of slimy brain matter. No doubt the big oaf did his level best with what he had to work with.

         His obvious handicap was widely discussed among the 200 men of Charlie Company, albeit in subdued and hushed tones. And always when Bru was 100 miles away in Los Angeles on weekend leave.

         “Buttcan.” A truly intriguing term, and in all likelehood sounds foreign to some ears. Let’s define the durn thing.

         Buttcans were in 1951, and remain today, tin containers of one-gallon capacity. Filled with coarse sand, the repugnant eyesores were placed at strategic locations throughout our barracks , used by smokers as receptacles for cigarette residue.

         Brucato had some very interesting viewpoints. He thought any man dropping one iota of cigarette ash on the floor of an army barracks was subject to charges of treason, a very serious rap indeed. It’s maximum penalty was execution by firing-squad ( that is , in the 1950’s. More’n likely any act of treason would go un-noticed today, no punishment whatsoever doled out. Hell, in  this modern day ya’ can even burn the flag! ). 

         Every man of Charlie Company found himself the recipient of dozens of Brucato blasts: “You old Buttcan. You have desecrated government property by dropping cigarette residue on the floor. A treasonable act , and charges will be filed. I’ll testify at your court-martial and recommend the maximum sentence.”

         Damn! Shot at dawn by 8 soldiers fer droppin’ cigarette ashes on the floor! If my own side wuz so vicious and unreasonable, what might one expect if he fell into enemy hands?!

          But on with descriptions. Those gallon cans came from the Company messhall. Their contents of corn, peas, and yellow cling peaches had been emptied and fed to the troops. Paper wrappers were then peeled away and an amazing transformation was completed. A metamorphosis from food container to buttcan!

           Now folks, a gallon can made of ugly galvanized tin is not an object of art. Pretty they ain’t, horrendous they are.

           A question for modern-day Mom’s of “couch taters.” What would you think if someone likened your Junior to an old tin can?

           Mommy dearest, you’d dial the number of yer Congressman…

4  

           The very best part of boot-camp training 40 years ago were the memorable speeches one had the distinct and honored privilege of hearing. At least 35 of ‘em each and every day for 4 months.

           These brilliant oratories began at 5:00 A.M., continued all thru the waking hours, and ended only when lights were turned out after a long and grueling day ( quite often, however, we were rudely awakened at 3:00 A.M. Seems a forgetful cadreman had neglected to impart a bit of information: “A particularly pleasurable day is planned for tomorrow, so we’ll be getting outta’ our cozy warm cots 30 minutes earlier than usual, at 4:00 A.M. That’s it for now. Sleep well.” ). 

           There’s a right way to get things done, and also a wrong way. And then there’s “the army way.” Ladies and gentlemen, they’d awakened us at 3:00 A.M. to let us know we’d be awakened at 4:00 A.M.!

            All cadremen of  “C” Company were skilled in the art of speechmaking, though none could hold a candle for Brucato. That man, if he might be called such, was a curious combination…a “Dukes mixture” one might say. Exactly one-half professional soldier, exactly one-half ham actor. Sarge was a peer to the Barrymore family of stage and screen fame. For 4 months I watched him proudly wear the uniform of his country. For 4 months I watched enthralled as he emoted with equal pride!

            Brucato hardly needed a speech-writer. Neither did he rely on notes or cue cards. Old Sarge just ad-libbed, and those beautifully worded jewels rolled off his tongue like water flowing over Niagara. In front of 200 men he pompously strutted, and then with perfect timing a coarse voice finally boomed: “I’m not sure just when it happened, but somewhere in my past I erred badly, thereby arousing their  wrath and finding disfavor with the Gods! What else could explain my being saddled with east-coast riff-raff like you!”

            Such outbursts were food for later discussion in the barracks, but certainly not while standing in ranks. One has two courses of action when insulted by a tyrant with dictatorial powers. You can like it…or you can lump it. The men of Charlie Company did a “whole lotta’lumpin” during their 4 months stay at Camp Roberts!

            An appropriate pause, then Brucato launched into added inflammatory oratory: “People born east of the Mississippi are an ill-bred, sub-human species of  the  genuine human race. Regretfully I must look at you mangy curs each day for the next 4 months. This is a situation not of my choosing, a relationship I’d rather not be a part of. My job is to make soldiers, but lookin' at a slovenly group like you let’s me see futility, and seriously consider resigning after 20 years. I know all about your past. You cute little tykes from Philadelphia. You redneck Johnny Rebs from dear old Dixie. Them Chinamen  runnin’ around in Korea will rejoice when told you’re headin’ their way!”

            Such glowing tributes went far toward boosting ones self-confidence, and bolstered the old self-esteem too. Not even 175 future members of the Mafia dared challenge the Field-First Sergeant.

            Just one “couch tater” can challenge a cadreman in today’s army. All they need is Mom and a Congressman standing in their corner. And the U.S.Army is torn asunder a bit more…

5

             These past several chapters have been spent “tearin’ down” the bullying Brucato. But really, most of that stuff was hyperbole, a polite term which can be defined many ways. One is hogwash. Another ( and I find this one particularly irksome because I’m often accused of dealing in it ) is a “big chunk of baloney.” An awareness that one’s word ain’t worth a plug nickel is most distressing. However, I take solace knowing such ridiculous accusations are completely without basis, totally unwarranted.

              Now people, anything that’s ripped asunder and torn down can be reconstructed. This is true whether it’s an inanimate object, or a flesh-and-blood person.

              Ya’ just bide yer time till the dust settles, then move right in and begin sifting through the rubble and wreckage for the cornerstones. Next, ya’ start layin’ building blocks, making sure always that a firm foundation is underneath. Quick as a flash the tedious labors are completed, at which time you step back a few paces to view yer handiwork. And marvel at the new building  ( or person ) that has risen from a pyre of smoldering ashes because of your efforts. Most rewarding…very gratifying.

            Commencing this very moment that’s what will happen in the case of Herraro Brucato. I’m gonna’ build the big dolt back up ( but not reshape him). A word of caution concerning this.

           It’s okay to alter blueprints for a building. Everybody does it ( lets don’t have a closet at this location. Lets put it over yonder in that corner ).

           But hear this, and remember well. Never, never try to  reshape any person to your whims and liking! A big old mistake, a boo-boo deluxe. Podnuh, it just won’t work. Accept ‘em for what he or she is, or git the hell on down the road.

           So then, my efforts will focus on rebuilding  Herraro, not reshaping him. The army had placed a tremendous responsibility on the thick shoulders of this man and others of his profession. A “police action” in faraway Korea was in full swing. Thousands of Americans had completed their tours of duty in Frozen Chosen, and waited anxiously on that frigid Asian peninsula to rotate home under the point system the army used. Trained replacements were needed…in a hurry

            Training those replacements is where Brucato and his breed enter the picture. But know this about the Sarge. He was not a “by the book” noncom. Brucato threw the training manual away after shredding the durn thing, stomping it, beating the book to death, setting fire to it, and blue-penciling the parts he didn’t like.