6
Tough, tough, tough. Old Brickhead Brucato was a radical devotee of toughness, preached it’s virtues constantly and passionately. The same sermon blared forth 15 times daily: “You dingy Buttcans from the east-coast are headin’ for a tough place, and once there you’ll be meeting lots and lots of Chinamen. Them there gents ain’t in Korea makin’ a pitch for the laundry business. Which means we gotta’ get double tough in a hurry. Pay attention to your beloved Field-First Sergeant, for I will tell you no wrong. I’ll not be around forever to wet-nurse you Philly bums, nor can I eternally shepherd you Reb rednecks from the deep south. Y’all hear me?” “We hear you, Sergeant sir!,” screamed the 25 southerners of Charlie Company. We rebs sorta’ enjoyed Brucato’s showboating filibusters, but the 175 from the “City of Brotherly Love” remained real nonchalant, reacting only with snide remarks , grumbling and griping ( their voices remained very low-key while stating those displeasures. Nothing more than muted whispers ). You see, the lads from Philly never really caught on that a game was being played, and all of us, cadremen and recruits alike, were mere pawns. Though his methods strayed considerably from all known training manuals, still they worked exceptionally well : “Any buttcan foolish enough to fall asleep during this class is going to be very, very sorry. My cadre personnel will be walking among you, delivering some well-placed and mighty blows to the helmet-liner of any nasty dog who yawns or closes his eyes. Am I coming through loud and clear?” “Yessir Sergeant, we lowly mangy mongrels are receiving you loud and clear.” “Within 3 minutes at least 70 heads began nodding, eyelids became terribly heavy, and a spell of drowsiness permeated throughout the entire company. Army instructional classes are notoriously dull, and are a most effective medicine for inducing sleep. A word of explanation concerning helmet-liners. The dratted things are egg-shell thin , and the headgear most often seen atop the heads of military people. They fit snugly under those cumbersome “steelpots”, a protective device which ain’t used unless a sonofagun is shootin’ at yer head. Pop, zap, crash! Brucato was a man who kept his word. Down came the riding-crops with tremendous force ( every cadreman carried a riding-crop, an implement made of hardwood and tough leather. The tutors of Charlie Company fancied themselves George S. Patton ). A ringing sensation inside ye old head results when foreign objects such as sticks, stones, and riding-crops make contact with thin helmet-liners! I was on the receiving end of many such blows, and always woke up abruptly to ask the same question: “Where am I ?” this was followed immediately with: “What happened?” ( folks, I’m desperately trying to make this sound like a movie-script ). Field-First Sergeant Herraro A. Brucato…truly one of a kind…
7
By week twelve of our training cycle the 200 men of Charlie Company had reached the zenith of physical conditioning. We hadn’t been designated a “special elite unit” such as green berets, marines, airborne, commandos, rangers, or frogmen. But let me tell ya’ somethin’ pal…we could’ve double-timed down the durn road just as far as any of them there “glamour boys.” I mean, a 30 mile forced march is the same whether a “special unit” is doin’ the walkin,’ or if a bunch of plain old dogfaces are poundin’ the ground. Such an outing will test the endurance of either. Why!…great time o’ day, Charlie Company could hoof it with the best of ‘em! Now then, a word for you unlucky people who haven’t yet been granted the privilege to enjoy an all-out assault by a tear-gas attack. Let’s have an informal discussion about that wonderful chemical concoction. A cloud of tear gas causes many sensations in the human body. Stinging, burning, smarting, biting, uncontrollable coughing, sheddin’ lotsa’ tears, and that general all-around uncomfortable feeling associated with any “wish I was dead” experience. Tear gas is potent stuff, and will bring a deluge of moisture to the eyes of commandos just as it caused the men of “C” Company to cry like babies! No amount of training can overcome that weakness, ya’ won’t grow immune to the ravages of tear gas! Though our stamina and performance improved daily, Brucato and his band of nitwits were never quite satisfied and became ever-more demanding. To repeat, here was a man far and errantly distant from the manual. That numbskull seemed bent on driving us to the breaking point, and the beginning of week 14 proved he’d stop at nothing. A Sunday morning it was, normally a time when early morning whistles remained silent. But not so on this Sabbath. Brucato was in a harassing mood, had us standing formation and gittin’ an old-fashioned drenching. “Good news this morning,” he led off. “Tomorrow we begin a two-week bivouac.” Ladies and gentlemen, for the next 5 minutes we listened as the field-first Sergeant outlined his incredulous plan. The Pentagon would’ve intervened had they known, because here was a blueprint hatched out in the diseased and demented brain of a man gone completely loco! A fiasco was in the making, and tomorrow many among the ranks of Charlie Company might seriously contemplate mass-suicide…
8
Believe me, it’s a good thing “couch taters” weren’t present that long-ago Sunday morning as Sergeant Brucato put forth his madcap idea. Those types would’ve headed for the base perimeter, melted away into the rain and mist, and remained AWOL forever. Even we non “sofa spuds” thought seriously of deserting, which at that time in our history was an unthinkable offense ( such could get our hides filled to capacity with bullet holes, and this should convey the idea that our plight was a desperate one ). It seemed a prudent idea to separate ourselves widely from this lunatic by hitch-hiking 3,000 miles to the east coast from wherest we came. “Gentlemen,” Brucato began speaking, seemingly unaware of the monsoon downpour. His using the term “ gentlemen” instantly set off alarm bells in the 200 men under his tyrannical control, for it marked the very first time we’d heard a term of even slight respect escape the lips of our topkick. Usually he addressed us as buttcans, scum, east-coast riff-raff, Neanderthals, or mangy curs! “Fifty miles north of here,” he continued, “is a beautiful mountainous area called Hunter Liggett Military Reservation. Tomorrow we’re going there to partake of the wondrous recreational opportunities offered in those glorious envirions. This is an all-expense paid trip coming your way courtesy the taxpayers of America and the United States Army.” I must interrupt Brucato’s tirade for one moment to inform the reader of a very critical point…not one man who listened fell for his cock-and-bull rantings. Instead, the obnoxious and nauseating odor of yet another “foray into folly” came reeking through. Our feelings were not of elation, but overwhelming dread and deep concern. Though unspoken, one could actually sense the question churning in the mind of every man: “What in hell has this ape dreamed up now?” Whatever, ill-winds were surely blowing in our direction. The man with five stripes continued deflating his overworked lungs by expelling more hot air: “ You men of this command can consider yourselves extremely lucky. The paradise where we’ll be spending a couple weeks is off-limits to civilians and other intruders from the outside world; Hunter Liggett’s unlimited recreational facilities are reserved exclusively for your enjoyment and sheer pleasure. Wide-open spaces, hiking, lotsa’ fresh air. You can have yer weary bodies rejuvenated by drinking barrels of refreshing cool water gushing forth from pristine mountain streams. We’ll be doin’ some extensive hill climbing, this so you can be treated to awe-inspiring views from lofty peaks. A word of caution. Charlie Company must come together with a camaraderie as never before. There have been many reported sightings of mysterious creatures who roam the hinterlands of Hunter Liggett. Don’t wander off alone into the woodlands!” A slight pause for dramatic effect and then: “ Gentlemen, tomorrow we venture into the lair of Bigfoot!” The mere mention of that hybrid man-ape had shockwave implications for anyone…even an army headed for Hunter Liggett. It caused pause and pondering, allowed stark terror to penetrate the innermost core of one’s soul. “Most units motor up to that heavenly place by truck convoy,” Brucato continued. But my company deserves somethin’ better. I’ve gone to great personal expense by chartering a fleet of 10 small privately-owned airplanes. They’ll ferry us up in groups of 30, taking off from a secluded airstrip in Paso Robles. The pilots have been instructed to fly over our bivouac area at an altitude of 800 feet, at which time you will hastily depart from those aircraft. Gentlemen, we’re jumpin’ into Hunter Liggett!” A noticeable stirring in ranks that had maintained a strictly enforced silence for 14 weeks. From the formation a voice cried out: “But Sergeant Sir, we’re not airborne, ain’t had one minute of parachute training!” Brucato paced from first platoon to fourth for additional melodramatics, then his voice thundered across 9 counties of Southern California: “Who the hell said anything about parachutes?!” Two absolutely terrifying prospects…first, the idiotic act of jumpin’ from an airplane! Secondly and even gloomier, the distinct likelehood that an unspeakably horrible Bigfoot waited on the ground to break yer free-fall with outstretched and crushingly powerful arms! One has a tendency to pace when sleep won’t come. I paced the barracks floor all thru the night…
9
We can abbreviate a long story here by simply stating that our “airborne operation” of some 40 years ago was a huge and howling success. The doggone thing went off with precision-like clockwork, not a single snafu was encountered. This can be attributed to vision, farsightedness, and a superb logistical planning which can only be described as par excellence. Sergeant Brucato and his staff had considered every contingency, covered all bases, closed every loophole, and reduced the margin of error to exactly zero. Such was a must, for neither President Truman, the Pentagon, nor Joint Chiefs of Staff had been duly informed. Those top-echelon officials, even to this day, remain in the dark about what happened at Hunter Liggett. The 200 men who participated in that covert operation were loaded aboard privately-owned planes at a clandestine aerodrome in Paso Robles and flown 50 miles north to a particularly rugged point of California terrain. At which time the pilots received radio instructions from the villainous Brucato , who stood far below masterminding this very latest, evolutionary and quite unique tactic in military strategy: “Git ‘em outta there!” This was the moment of reckoning, the ultimate test to determine toughness. Trained to obey without hesitation or second-guessing, three men in each Piper exited the door, placed boots gingerly onto wing-struts, and stepped off into the thin atmosphere 800 feet above ground…without a parachute! The logic of Brucato and his henchmen went somethin’ like this: “we’ve did a super job with this group of men, turned ‘em into tip-top physical specimens. Surely falling a mere 800 feet won’t hurt ‘em.” And guess what! Damned if’n our tutors wuzn’t right! Anyone can step from a high-flying airplane with a parachute strapped to his back…no big deal. Why goodness sakes, cream-puffs, sissies, cry-babies, wimps, babes in arms, even yer aged mother who might be in failing health can leap from precipice or plane with parachute! Even so they have nothing to crow about. On the other hand, departing from the snug interior of a soaring aircraft without a silken canopy is an experience guaranteed to linger in yer memory fer a considerable spell…it’s durn hard to forget! A violent collision with the ground is possible, indeed highly probable, when one drops 800 feet without a parachute! The 200 men of Charlie Company made rather hard contact with terra-firma, yet managed to perform flawlessly…without incident, ballyhoo, or serious injury. A credit to the hard-driving Brucato and his unwavering dedication toward turning out a “fair to middlin” soldier. Oh, I suppose there were a few unfortunate mishaps. But these resulted in only minor bumps and bruises. Half a dozen sprained ankles, a like number of dislocated hips. Four men arose from the rock-strewn mountainside walkin’ somewhat gimpy because of slightly mangled legs. A handful complained of headaches, two lads had fair-sized bones protruding from badly lacerated wrists. One unlucky fellow was suddenly 8 inches shorter after his fall. This poor dude had gotten all mixed up, disoriented in mid-air…landed on his head! Neck was incorporated into and became apart of shoulders. But even that amounted to little more than inconvenience. The medics applied first-aid pouch, gave the chap 2 aspirins and a quinine tablet. In a quick 3 minutes he fully recovered and wuz rarin’ to go! Routine, routine… We began our bivouac that very day and finished the frolicking caper two weeks later. Transportation back to our company area at Camp roberts proved no problem for Brucato and crew. We simply strapped 200 pounds of equipment on our backs and double-timed ( ran ) the 50 miles across rugged terrain. Took about 6 hours …a bit more than 8 mph. Pretty good, all things considered. Got to bed early that night. Tomorrow would be our final day at Camp Roberts. And then 200 men would scatter to different places around the globe…
10
It was Saturday morning, two days after returning from our delightful 2 weeks of bivouac. The 200 men of Charlie Company had been called to assemble on the company street for their final formation. Duffle bags in hand, we would not be returning to the barracks that had been home for 16 weeks ( they were already being prepared for the next group that Brucato would play mind-games with. He’d greet them with a cold stare and say: “Alright you old Buttcans…fall in!” The field-first moved before the company…first platoon to fourth platoon. And then again, each time stopping before each platoon to look them over a short while. We steadied ourselves for the blast every man expected. And then it came: “I’d like to congratulate you gentlemen for being the best group that’s ever passed thru here. Good luck to you wherever you might go. Who knows…maybe someday we’ll meet again. Gentlemen…you’re dismissed!” About an hour of handshaking and mingling twixt we who were trainees no more…and cadre personnel. Sergeant Brucato shook my hand firmly and said “I’ve enjoyed working with you.” I looked the field-first in the eye to reply: “And this east coast riff-raff has enjoyed your company.” And then had ourselves a good laugh. Sergeant Brucato wheeled and returned to his office without looking back. I picked up a heavy duffle bag and headed for the bus station. I didn’t look back either…
Today, 40 years after the fact, I have mixed feelings about those long-ago events. I still believe Brucato was an animal. But ya know, a small crack appeared in his armor the day we departed Camp Roberts. That teeny opening proved a tad of “humaness” remained inside. Occasionally, not too often but every now and then, I have an urge to once again stand before Brucato and hear anew one of his demeaning tirades. To listen once more as the abusive language came rapid-fire. To again be addressed as east coast scum. The End M. L. Wilkinson May, 1989
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