Leaving on a Jet Plane

While we were in the Division Isolation area we drew ammunition from the ammo guys and generally loaded up. No frags or claymores though – quite disappointing. Going through the line I asked for an additional bandolier of ammunition and it was handed over – the usually painful process of getting bullets pretty much went out the window. Disappointed that I didn’t get any grenades I went back to my little corner of the world and began loading magazines. Shortly after that Top Alexander told me to pick up an M60 machinegun for the section and to secure however much ammunition I could get – roger that top! The neatest thing was that this weapon had literally come out of the box! Not a single round had been fired through it. Having been a Pig gunner for a long time I was reveling in the power that I held in my hands. But wait, I didn’t have to carry it! I handed the MG over to one of the clerks who immediately started to complain I was picking on him. 

Anyway, this happened at the D-LAC and eventually, with no vehicles available to transport us, we were instructed to walk from the barracks to Green Ramp, a trip of about a mile, so with no organization and no one willing to take charge I rucked up and started humping to the airfield.  It was a long miserable walk, and the closer I got to Green Ramp the more ammunition and gear I saw scattered on the ground – soldiers were dumping equipment before we even got on the airplanes! Had I not already been loaded down I would have picked quite a bit of it up. Although I would wager I was carrying considerably less than any of the line grunts, I was sucking some serious wind by the time I made the trek.

After what seemed like a very long time we arrived at Green ramp and assembled into our designated sticks. About this time I was given a case of M-60 ammunition to spread among the S3 section. If nothing else, we would at least transport the ammo for the guys. As I was breaking down the crate of bullets the CSM walked by and asked me “why the hell did [I] have all those bullets?” I gritted my teeth and continued stuffing hundred-round boxes into my ruck and once it was full I moved around the S3 handing out the other boxes of 7.62 ammunition to other members of the “3.” Well, it was more like tried to hand out the bullets. A couple of them tried to refuse but I pushed the box into their hands and moved on. One guy complained that he already had a basic load of 5.56 and 40mm grenades and “Just couldn’t carry another thing…”

Whatever.

I was finally down to one box of ammo and I decided to gamble a little. I walked over to where the Big Ragoo was sitting and told him how much I hated to do this to him but I really needed him to carry a box of bullets for us. He looked up at me like I’d just shit in his hat but sheepishly took the box from my hand. I walked away thinking, “Hmmm, that wasn’t so hard… maybe things are starting to look up?”

Oh yeah, anyway, I discovered quite by accident that the O’s actually DID have M16s! Of course most of them carried their rifles like they hadn’t seen one since the Basic Course. There they were with M16 and their .45s like real live soldiers! Funny thing though, now they were deploying to a combat zone they were all for carrying their long guns. 

Eventually, we were called to load up a waiting C-141 and once more we struggled to our feet and waddled out to the waiting aircraft. Again, with little adult supervision my sergeant-sense (much like Peter Parker’s Spidey-sense) kicked in and I hung back, helped people to their feet and generally tried to be the last one to the airplane so I’d be closer to the pisser! Then,  as I turned to follow the gaggle to the plane I glanced back to where the Big Ragoo had been sitting and there in the red Carolina sand sat a lone box of 7.62mm ammunition.

THAT SUNUVABITCH.

            I bent down to pick up the ammunition and wondered after all this bullshit, what was waiting for us on the island. I was REALLY ready for a fight.

Just a Sip of Joe

In addition to the daily grind of the S3 office, Physical Training occurred every morning rain or shine, but ironically, a couple of the staff officers always seemed to be absent in the cold, dark mornings on Ardennes Street, too busy to enjoy a refreshing jog down the street with 20,000 other paratroopers. Anyway, mornings were always interesting for a number of reasons.

 There was a ritual of sorts each morning in the S3 Shop and it was always hilarious to watch. The outgoing CQ runner would be tasked to take the large electric coffee urn to the mess hall to retrieve the day’s supply of coffee for the shop. However, there was one small problem with this arrangement. You see the coffee urn was missing one of its three legs therefore you had to turn the urn just so. On its perch in the utility closet there was a block of wood to keep the coffee maker upright. However, occasionally the runner would forget this minor but important detail. The runner would invariably return to a closed door, so naturally, instead of asking for someone to open the door, the private would set the urn down on the closest desk in order to complete his task.  Yep, you guessed it. Almost every morning a gallon or so of coffee would splash all over The Big Ragoo’s desk. His ensuing tirade directed towards the hapless private went far beyond any reasonable response. 

I just sat there at my desk each morning sipping my own coffee and waited for the show, never understanding why the other coffee drinkers didn’t just get a new coffee urn or at least warn the CQ runner about the broken coffee urn.

The Journey Continues

It occurred to me recently that it has been almost 30 years since the United States invaded the Caribbean island nation of Grenada. Has it been that long? Am I really THAT old?

It wasn’t much as wars go, but it was all we had.

Many of the names have faded into nothingness, but through the wonders of the Internet and especially Facebook, I have reconnected with some very special people that I never expected to hear from again. I am honored to have served with all of you and even more humbled that so many of you have sought me out in the netherworld of the Worldwide Web.

With this reunion of sorts, some have asked for the real story behind my ignominious departure from the battalion and the war so I have been writing down memories from Task Force and our sojourn to the tropical paradise that is. Grenada.

I was left behind when Bravo Company went to round out the DRF (Division Ready Force) point battalion – apparently the 325 had a cohort company that hadn’t met the requirements to deploy. Crushed and with a case of the ass I threw myself into doing whatever I could to support the line companies from my niche in the S3 (operations) at Battalion Headquarters. Shortly after the alert Task Force was notified that the entire unit would deploy to Grenada and we deployed a few days later.

As a member of the S3 I got to see the battalion’s command structure up close and personal, and it wasn't always a pretty picture, especially after we deployed to Grenada where failings of character could very well get someone killed. LTC Nightengale was sharp and whenever he talked about the mission I listened. I remember one time listening in as he dressed down the Scout Platoon’s Lieutenant on the radio for taking unnecessary risks with the Scout Platoon by doing a ground reconnaissance of an area that had suspected enemy movement. The colonel didn’t raise his voice, used few words but they were burned into the LT’s (and my) memory. The Night Hawk told him that he should have called in a recon helicopter to scout out the site first to avoid the chance of an ambush. Reflecting on the event now, he obviously knew the mission was winding down and he didn’t want casualties so close to the end. One other time one of us in the TOC spotted a few columns of dense smoke on a nearby ridge line and as we were speculating if it could be Cubans the colonel wandered over and with a quick glance at the hillside told us not to worry because the islanders used charcoal for cooking and that it was probably just a civilian making charcoal to sell at the market.

Others that seemed squared away were the XO Major “Iron” Mike Canavan and the Operations Officer Major Portant. Other members of the cast included the battalion’s senior NCO CSM Sirois (who, years later tried to sell me life insurance). MSG George Alexander was the battalion operations sergeant – a no-nonsense kinda guy, he had been my First Sergeant in the 509^th and during my first assignment to Task Force I had seen him punch out a Staff Sergeant in the back of a battalion formation – shocking to then-Private Woods.

That’s just about where the professionalism petered out. The S2 (intel) NCO was a long-time SFC who constantly bitched about just about everything, but mostly he carped about not getting promoted to MSG.

 Time to read the (not so) funnies.

The first one was known as “The Big Ragoo,” A goofy-looking guy who if he wasn’t eating was usually seen with a huge wad of tobacco in his cheek and a can of coke in his hand – how you could chew and drink soda pop at the same time is beyond me. He was a cartoonish buffoon who had ended up in the S3 or Operations office of the 2/505. I don’t remember his real first name – to me it was “Captain.” He also had what was known as a “duffle-butt,” with a very matronly shaped third point of contact.

For those uninitiated (as in non-airborne) readers, he had a really big ass. So much so that being behind him during a PT run was a gut-churning experience – that is IF he actually ran PT. Anyway, he wasn’t the brightest or sharpest crayon in the box, which oddly explained his assignment to the S3 shop. As is the way of the Army – and as a method of damage control, sometimes people get assigned to a job where they can’t hurt too much with their ineptitude. More on the Big Ragoo later.

That methodology might explain my arrival to the “Ops Shop” as the new schools NCO, but I’d like to think it was more so because I volunteered. 

Anyway, back to the path that I took to get to to get kicked out of the war. 

I knew I had to get out of Cold Steel Bravo before it was too late – as in too late to save my career. My outgoing platoon sergeant John Smythe, (a couple years later, John and I would work together again in 1st Special Forces Group for many years) warned me as I was signing my Change-of-Rater NCOER evaluation report before he left for the Q-Course: “You need to get out of here, they (the CO and 1SG) are out to get you.” As proof of this sentiment First Sergeant Watts had taken it upon himself to rate my performance as a squad leader. Since we were without a platoon leader at the time that section could have been left blank with no ill effect on my evaluation. However, Terry, in all his Senior NCO-ness wouldn’t allow that to happen.  To say his assessment of me was less than stellar would be a gross understatement – especially since John had given me exemplary ratings. Anyway, that event provided me with the incentive to “go to battalion” as quickly as possible

It took a while, but eventually I was able to get out from under their glaring, eyes – at least for the time being. But first,  I got to experience Vinnie.

Vinnie

SFC Vincent Rondinone, a former black hat (airborne instructor).   I really don’t have much to say about him other than the time he turned to me glaring and said, “Don’t even think about hitting me Sergeant Woods.” Well, to tell you the truth I hadn’t thought about it until he brought it up.  But to actually sacrifice myself on the altar of stupidity for him was almost laughable.

Then there was the time that I couldn’t help but giggle when he wrote me up for my lack of TACK. I insisted on signing the document but I don’t think he ever caught on to what was so funny. I immediately went to the PX and bought a box of TACTs.

There was one thing Vinnie did that really torqued me.  As anyone who lived in Bravo Company’s barracks knows, there was one washer and one drier in each latrine, so there were a grand total of three each in the barracks. At any one time it was quite possible that one or more was broken, therefore for an infantry company it left few assets for a number of soldiers to wash clothes. However, this didn’t seem to concern him, because on a routine basis Vinnie brought his family’s clothes into the barracks to launder! Never could understand that logic that would make this okay.  

Now, I don’t want people to think that I was (or claimed to be) a stellar soldier all the time – I made more than my fair share of mistakes in garrison and in the field. Once, while out in the field we were basically admin and had a West Point cadet with us. Vinnie decided that us three would pull guard so the rest of the platoon could get max sleep that night. When I was awakened for my shift I promptly fell back to sleep and the platoon started out behind the power curve for the next day’s training. I failed to fully wake my ass up and rightly got chewed out for it. A contentious relationship was made worse for my screw up.

I do remember – vaguely, there was a platoon party at Vinnie’s house where – I think it was Dave Potts and I trashed some furniture, something about red wine, shoving match (all in good fun) and white upholstery. If I did, I am truly sorry. Alcohol had a pretty firm grip on me in those days.

Anyway, time marched on and an opportunity arose for me to move to Battalion.

“What we’ve got here ….”

Thus my life as an ops poge began.

In the beginning of my assignment, I spent most of my time trying to figure out what my job really was, the task being especially difficult since the former schools “NCO” was actually a SP4. It was kind of tough as an SSG to take over from an E-4, but at least I was out from under Mark D’s and “Baldi-lock’s” thumbs. The learning curve was especially high since the arrogant little prick had created an arcane method of record keeping, had a serious attitude problem and fully embraced the “knowledge is power” mentality.

Ordinarily I would have jacked him up with a good ass-chewing because I knew him from his short time in B Company, but he was one of the “protected species” in the S3 shop.  Therefore, in addition to learning the intricacies of the army paperwork system, I was required to ride herd on a handful of “clerks and jerks.” However, I was told to essentially leave the clerks alone as they had special skills that the officers were afraid they would lose if the clerks got upset. Keep in mind this was before the wide use of computers, so just about everything was handwritten or typed. Paperwork was completed – in triplicate, signed, sealed and put in distribution while fingers were crossed and follow-up phone calls were made to ensure the desired outcome occurred.

Seemingly the chosen one of the 3-shop; (I forgot his name) was a pretty boy and muscle head that had somehow built himself quite a safe haven and essentially was out of reach by anyone except the officers of S3 with whom he kissed ass at every opportunity while enjoying the protection of officers within the operations shop.

A short digression is in order here. I’m pretty sure this kid was gay. Don’t know for sure but it seemed like he was light in the loafers. To tell you the truth I didn’t really care then and I REALLY don’t care now, but there was something. Not. Quite. Right. About. Him.

I knew of at least one other homosexual in the battalion – at least for a short while. Turned out that one of our company's platoon leaders (West Pointer no less) was either outed by someone or came out of the closet himself at some point in time. It seemed like a real waste because he seemed to have his stuff together and was even pretty cool after he discovered that I was building a rifle in the barracks. It was just a black powder .50 caliber Hawkins, but apparently making weapons in the barracks is frowned.J 

Anyway, one day he was there and the next day he was gone, now, back to the funnies.

Rumor had it that the schools "NCO,"had secured for himself certain school slots that should have gone elsewhere within battalion. The muscle-head was also standing by for Ranger School and for some reason this had garnered the praise and adoration of just about every officer in the battalion – at the time very few NCOs and ZERO enlisted soldiers were ranger qualified, the black and gold tab was seemingly only worn by the commissioned officers. Therefore, this somehow excluded him from most fatigue details that are necessary for a military unit to function – police call, CQ runner, cleaning the latrine, mopping the floor, etc.  In addition to this prima donna, I quickly discovered that most of the enlisted soldiers at the battalion S3 shop had attitudes and had also enjoyed the protection from the powers that be.

This was when computers were first showing up in units below Brigade level and they were temperamental creatures that required the operator know exactly what he was doing. Somehow the officers of the head shed decided that since these young soldiers knew how to make the magic boxes work and keep them running that it created a legion of lower-enlisted soldiers who pretty much could do whatever they pleased as long as the paperwork kept churning out. Being a young, hard-charging Staff Sergeant I would soon learn life, as I knew it, was over. I was no longer in charge of much of anything and I was little more than a very small cog in the machine that was “Task Force 2/505.”

I joke about it now, but at the time it was a terrible blow to my ego.

It was interesting to note that the battalion spent a lot of time in the field, that’s good considering it was an infantry battalion – sort of a no-brainer. But I got to experience the joys of packing and unpacking a Gamma-Goat, assembling tents and erecting an ungodly contraption not so affectionately called “The Worm,” it was a portable tunnel – imagine a vacuum cleaner hose only man-sized. The rationale behind this confounded contraption was to connect TOC tents together, something to do with continuous ops and noise and light discipline – a pain in the ass that’s for sure. Funny thing though, it never deployed to a combat zone. Go figure.

To tell you the truth, I really enjoyed going to the field with the S3 section because it was like a giant campout - only with camouflage face paint and guns. Speaking of guns, it was interesting to note that the S3 officers never deployed to field exercises with M-16s, they always seemed to get away with signing out a holster from supply and pretend they had a pistol rather than actually tote a real weapon around. Keep this little factoid filed away for one of my Grenada stories.

As I said, going to the field with the S3 was like a giant campout, I could take as much Pogey bait as I wanted and all the comfort items that had sat in my wall locker unused because I only had to carry it to and from the Gamma Goat!  After setting up the TOC I would string up my poncho hooch and tried to stay as far away from what had all the makings of a VERY dysfunctional family. Dysfunctional is the kindest word I can come up with for now.

Race and all that....

All American Means Just That!

Race relations in the 82d – at least from my experience was left up to the individual soldiers. Oh, we had the required classes and such, but people befriended others who had similar likes and dislikes. Don't interpret this posting that everything was rosy and we all got along, there were rifts and antagonisms from both ends of the ethnic/racial spectrum. However, We were all brother paratroopers and with this one exception I rarely heard of any overt racist activities.

Some time in mid-1982 I encountered the most blatant case of racism I ever encountered in the army. A young black sergeant had just PCSed to Mother Bragg from the 1/509^th ABCT – my old unit. We knew each other casually, not buddies by any stretch of the imagination but he was a good enough guy – he was fairly new E-5 and seemed a perfect fit for an open team leader’s slot. But I was advised by my then-platoon sergeant, “we didn’t need to have one of THOSE people in a leadership position. You know what I mean?” Yeah, I understood perfectly. Claude* went to a different platoon.

Most of my mentors were of different races and ethnicity and I still remember the names of the men who were my role models and the lessons they shared with this naïve Iowa Farm Boy. The color of their skin didn’t make one bit of difference.

Another, funnier story about Claude – not long after he got to Fort Bragg was that he got mugged in downtown Fayetteville. To hear him talk about it, he said very emphatically that, “I tell you what, the muzzle on that gun was this big!” He then mimed a dinner plate sized hole to emphasize his point.

The Latinos Weigh In

Race relations weren't always black and white. There were many other ethnicities that fit into this puzzle. There were a couple of Hispanics that got assigned to the company about the same time. I don't remember exactly where they hailed from but I seem to remember it was in So Cal because on their first weekend off duty they dressed like your stereotypical Hispanic gang member. To each his own right? Eventually, after they spent more time in the Deuce, one of them slowly began to integrate in his own right. His clothes, speech and mannerisms became less Barrio gang banger. Despite our differences he and I became pretty good friends. In fact I eventually ran into "Aggie"during my first assignment to SF. Once more the Army's brilliance shown through and a fluent Spanish speaker was assigned to an Asia-oriented Group!

… But I digress….

In the winter of 1982 I attended the Northern Warfare Winter course at Fort Greeley, Alaska, I got to be friends with a few folks from around the army, but also a couple other 82d Troopers who were also attending the course.  One of these guys will play an important part in my Grenada Raider story later on.

When we weren’t training in the Black Rapids training area there wasn’t much to do at Fort Greeley except drink and tell stories. During one of our late night BS sessions one of the other 82d soldiers – a black guy – mentioned something that he witnessed at “The Spectrum,” a club just off Murchison Road. I used to live in a trailer court near this particular nightspot so I was familiar with the establishment. I had never been in there, because it was, well, a black club frequented by African Americans – civilian and military alike and white guys weren’t necessarily welcome. No biggie-da, I didn’t care for the music anyway – come to think of it, I was going through my Country music phase at the time so I was frequenting the Nashville Station (long since closed) on the other side of Fayetteville.

Anyway, after having a few beers, this guy shared a story from one night on the Murch’. He was hanging out with some buddies at the bar when in through the doors walked a white guy. Just like that bar scene in “Animal House,” the music stopped and a hush fell over the crowd until someone spoke up, “That mother-fucker is either crazy or he got a gun.” With that the music started up again and the patrons went back to their drinks.

Or Did It?

When I was a young trooper, new to the company, I worked at fitting in to the platoon the best that I could. However, Woody was about to learn a very valuable lesson one night in the dayroom. 

With no car and little money, I was a bit of a barracks rat at first. One particular evening while hanging out in the company dayroom, I racked up a game of pool on the decrepit beer-stained and cigarette-burned pool table. When in through the doors stumbled a guy from my platoon. It was obvious that he was quite drunk but I called over to him and asked if he wanted to shoot a game of eight ball. "Jim"* was an American Indian and although he wasn’t a big guy,  as I remember, he was an excellent member of the Platoon’s machine-gun squad. Wobbling on his feet, his rheumy eyes finally focused on me with a look of intense dislike and anger. He then leaned over the pool table and with a sweep of his arm scattered the pool balls across the table. With a mumbled, "Fuck you," he took a defiant pose as if to taunt me into a fight. My reaction was one of shocked silence because I had never experienced something like this before, I stood there silently for a moment and thought, "well, I guess he doesn't want to play pool."

As I said, I was a real cherry at that time so I didn’t know that although he  was a pretty good soldier and quite friendly when sober Specialist Jim, pretty much hated white people when he was drunk - which  was as it turned out was most of the time. This was a little fact that no one deemed important enough to share with Private Woods. But, ironically, I WAS warned about a certain AWOL soldier who was up on charges for drug possession, I had been assigned his old bunk and I was warned that if he happened to show up at my room that I should vacate the room as quickly as possible. More on the Jumping Junkies in a later post!

Back in the dayroom

Suddenly, in a lightning move that defied his intoxicated state, he snatched the pool cue from the table and swung it at me. Luckily, I was able to dodge his swing and stood there flatfooted as he mumbled another "Fuck you." He then threw the stick down and stumbled back out of the dayroom leaving a very confused Woody standing there amidst the chuckles and catcalls from other more seasoned paratroopers in the back of the room.

With that, I decided I didn’t want to shoot pool either and headed to my room as well. A short time later, my roommate asked me what the hell I had on my face. I glanced in a mirror and noticed a streak of blue chalk right beneath my right eye. Damn! If that little fucker had been a little faster or I’d been a little slower the night things would have likely ended badly for both of us.

The following day Jim was as friendly as usual, never acknowledging what had transpired the night before.

Some time later Specialist Jim left the army, rumor had it that he’d become a heat casualty during a field exercise and it was found to have had a canteen full of Jack Daniels instead of water. And with that infraction it was just a matter of paperwork to send him on his way back home.

Race Relations at Mother Bragg and in Fatal-burgh

It is customary for each military base to publish a list of off-post establishments that are off limits to soldiers, it is posted prominently on every bulletin board and reviewed frequently to add and delete offenders. Usually a fairly extensive list, it includes known areas of drug dealing and prostitution. Some old-timers referred to it as the Michelin Guide to Fayetteville's night life. However, the list also contained a sizable list of residential areas that were deemed off limits as well. From crooked landlords to high crime literally dozens of trailer parks and residential areas in Fayetteville were verboten. Of course this was before the big cleanup in the 1980s that pushed the prostitutes and dealers elsewhere.

Being down South in the late 70s and early 80s, it wasn't hard to tell that in many areas throughout the Piedmont there were still racial tensions. Having come from white bread America, I quite couldn't grasp what it was all about. The basic fact was that in some places it was percolating just under the surface and the wrong colored face showing up in the wrong area could very easily end violently for a young soldier caught unawares.

This climate of simmering hatred was prevalent throughout the South.  I still remember vividly the one weekend during infantry school at Harmony Church at Fort Benning in 1977, when the entire training battalion's weekend passes were canceled and everyone was restricted to the barracks. Apparently, the Command had been warned of a Klan rally that was going to be held not far away. AIT was also the first time I was ever called a "Cracker," I had no idea what it meant so I asked a couple of my buddies. My education continued apace.

A few months later, after I'd made it to the Replacement Detachment for the 82d, we cherries had the whole weekend off to go exploring. a half-dozen of us piled into one guy's car and off we went. Since at the time Fort Bragg was an "open" post, meaning no guard shacks and gates at the entrance to the military reservation and if you weren't paying attention you could end up somewhere out in Cumberland County without a clue where to go. That's what happened to us, while cruising along drinking beer, long before GPS and without a local map, we kept going hoping to find a road sign - nothing. 

Finally, we saw a billboard in the distance. We all breathed a little bit easier as the gas gauge was getting well into the empty zone. As we got closer we could see figures riding on horses on the sign, "Oh good, a rodeo," spouted someone. One passenger, the lone black guy got really quiet and sunk down into his seat. "Hey, guys we need to get out of here." Finally, we got close enough to read the sign. 

It was an billboard advertising the Klu-Klux-Klan! 

Holy Shit! 

F-U-U-U-U-CK!

We need to get out of here! 

We all got really quiet as the driver tightened his grip on the wheel and increased our speed. 

Eventually, we found a major road intersection and gas station and rushed back to the safety of the Fort and it was some time before we ventured off-post again.

Much later, a young black man showed up in the unit with his duffle bag and a serious case of the ass. Private Wilson* had two heroes: Malcolm X and Bruce Lee. He was okay for the most part, but it seemed that he always steered conversations towards race and discrimination. Many of us would just sit and listen to him, his rants were sometimes informative and always entertaining, he even filed an EO complaint about some of our cadence calls:

"Coon skin and alligator hide, makes a pair of jump boots just the right size...."

As I said, "Wilson" was really into martial arts, Kung Fu to be specific, he would frequently be seen walking the hallway spinning a set of nun-chucks just like his hero Bruce Lee, that is until one of the NCOs would tell him to knock that shit off. Legend had it that one night around 0200 hrs, as the Charge of Quarters was trying to stay awake, all of a sudden someone dressed all in black, wearing a black ninja mask dropped down the stairwell into a crouch staring at the now-wide awake CQ. Before he could say or do anything, the black-clad ninja scurried down the hallway, disappeared into the other stairwell and vanished into the darkness. I don't know if they ever confirmed it was him, but I suspect Wilson AKA "Animal," was the night-warrior in question.

"Animal" seemed to believe that most if not all whites were racist and eventually he separated from the Army in what I would hope was an honorable discharge. I hope he sees himself in this description and gets in contact with me, I really did like the guy despite his anger.

Finally, Again.

As a side note, many years later, a good friend of mine ended up as the First Sergeant of the company in the 82d where Neo-Nazi PFC Burmeister was assigned. Kratz told me about the nightmare that followed when that fuck-knuckle murdered an African-American couple near Hay Street, and if Kaveman gives me permission, I will share that story with you some other time.

* I've changed his name to protect his privacy.