Chapter 8 #2
The sleeping arrangements were one long open bay-style room with several bunks, a far better arrangement than what Ozzie had on the ship.
Once the men had unpacked their things, Marshall gave them a tour of the facility.
They went through the Army Education Center, the Kitzingen library, the tailor shop, Tent City—which housed the telephone switchboards and all communications—the chapel that held both Protestant and Catholic services, and the basketball courts. They ended the tour at the rifle range.
“This is what I’m talking about. When do we get our weapons?” one man asked, pulling an imaginary trigger before blowing away pretend smoke.
“Soon enough, but first things first. PT starts tomorrow morning at six a.m.”
The next morning, after a three-mile run and a shower, Ozzie moved through the chow line at the mess hall. Famished, he piled his plate with eggs, sausage, and what the men called shit on a shingle, which was nothing more than creamed chipped beef on toast.
Satisfied, Ozzie’s squad reported to the classroom for the aptitude test. It was a two-hour exam, but Ozzie finished with at least thirty minutes to spare. As he walked from the classroom, Morgan fell in step next to him.
“How do you think you did?” Morgan asked, his stocky shoulders bunched around his ears.
“It was pretty basic.”
“Yeah, I agree. Nothing challenged me much. Where do you want to be assigned?”
“Intelligence. You?”
“I’m hoping for adjutant general. I’d like to advise on military policy and procedures. Handle promotions, transfers, discharges, and that sort of thing.”
“You don’t want to get your hands dirty?”
“I’m a thinker. Combat would be a waste of my talent,” Morgan said. Ozzie felt the same way. He’d rather read a book than swing a weapon.
They walked down the hall and up the steps to the library to wait for the other men to finish testing.
The room was narrow, with one wall of floor-to-ceiling books, several stuffed chairs, and a coffee table with stacks of American newspapers.
Ozzie found the Pittsburgh Courier. Even though the newspaper was dated May 5, 1948, nearly three months prior, he flipped it open.
Morgan grabbed an outdated issue of The Chicago Defender.
One by one, the other men from their unit filed into the library, some looking at magazines, others in small groups whispering about how they thought they’d done on the test.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention.” Sergeant Marshall had walked into the library and stood with an almond-colored man decorated in stripes and ribbons. “This is Lieutenant Lonnie W. Hill, assistant adjutant of the Kitzingen Basic Training Center.”
All the men in the library stood and saluted the lieutenant.
“At ease, gentlemen. I wanted to welcome you all to the best training center in the European Command. You are here at a monumental time,” said Lieutenant Hill.
He wore his tie tucked inside his button-down shirt, and a single wedding band adorned his thick ring finger.
“This just in from Washington: President Truman has signed Executive Order 9981, which mandates the desegregation of the U.S. Armed Forces.”
Ozzie blinked, wondering if he had heard correctly. The other men seemed equally stunned by the news. The room was so quiet you could hear a hatpin drop.
Lieutenant Hill held up a piece of paper and removed his glasses from his shirt pocket.
“It reads that ‘there shall be equality of treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion or natural origin.’ ” Laughter and joy emitted from the soldiers like water rushing from a dam.
“This is progress, men. Congratulations,” finished Lieutenant Hill.
Ozzie could see tears sparkling in the lieutenant’s eyes.
“We’ve come a long way. But there is still much work to be done. A celebratory dinner will be provided at five p.m. Enjoy this moment in history.”
Once the lieutenant and Sergeant Marshall left the library, the men roared. A few beat the table with their fists.
“We need to go out tonight and celebrate,” said Thornton. “Shiiit. This is the real deal.”
“My grandfather told me stories about his time in the army in World War One. Segregation was so bad that he wasn’t even given a pistol to fight with.
All he could do was clean up, cook, and be caddy to the white man.
Now we get to be equals. I need to have a drink for him.
” Morgan scratched his chin and headed toward the crowd of men talking loudly and making plans.
When he returned, he said, “Sounds like there’s a club that will welcome us. Down next to the footbridge.”
“I’m in like Flynn,” Thornton said. “Philips, you down to roll?”
Ozzie reveled. He was serving his country at an age that would go down in history.
This was what he had volunteered for, to make a difference.
To show people what the Negro man could do once given the chance.
With the military now desegregated, the dream of securing that position in Intelligence seemed a little more within reach.
“Yeah, count me in.”
“Man, I’m about to boogie with like three, four gals all at the same time,” Thornton bragged.
“Ain’t no woman going to be studying you. They’ll be too busy checking me out.” Morgan popped his collar.
“Watch me work.”
“Fool, you can’t even dance!”
“What you talking about? I move these feet like I’ma Nicholas brother.”
Ozzie and Morgan laughed, which only egged Thornton on. “They performed at my local juke in Mississippi once, and I memorized all their flash dances. I came to show you.” He hiked his pants and tapped his toes.
The men taunted and teased each other until they reached the club with the blinking neon sign.
When they walked into the bar area, there were already a handful of Negro soldiers Ozzie didn’t know, sitting at the counter, chatting with ivory-skinned women.
Even though he had heard that German women would be at the bar, Ozzie was caught off guard by the way the ladies smiled in the soldiers’ faces.
There were other women sitting in pairs at tables, and their gaze roamed over Ozzie and his friends, pleading for an invitation to dance.
Ozzie scanned the L-shaped room but didn’t see any white men anywhere.
He scratched his head at this new world that he had entered.
“A far cry from America,” Thornton said, putting Ozzie’s thoughts into words. “But I heard the local clubs do all they can to keep us separated from the white soldiers.”
“How?”
“By the music they play. Tonight, it’s blues.”
“Well, first round’s on me,” Thornton said. “What will it be?”
Morgan ordered a whiskey, Ozzie a club soda.
“Don’t you want something in it?” Thornton looked at him, perplexed.
Ozzie felt a little itch in the back of his throat, but he ignored it. “Naw, just the soda.” He intended to keep good on his promise to his mother. The bar smelled of beer and roasted nuts. The swing jazz playing sounded familiar, and it furthered Ozzie’s good mood.
“I’m going to ask one of those wallflowers over there to dance,” said Morgan, pushing out his chest.
“I’m coming too.” Thornton stood.
Morgan turned. “Philips, you getting in the game?”
“You go ahead. I’ll watch the table.”
The club had swelled, and as the music snapped up-tempo, the Negro men stepped to the German women like ducks on June bugs.
Laughter and movement suggested that everyone was having a good time.
Ozzie drank his club soda and sucked on ice cubes as he observed his new friends leading the ladies onto the dance floor.
Watching Thornton gyrate and Morgan sway made Ozzie wonder what Rita was doing up at Lincoln.
Had she replaced him with a college boy in a Greek sweatshirt?
What he wouldn’t give to kiss her on the lips at that moment.
Share the news of the military desegregating and his renewed sense that his future was bright.
He craved the sound of her voice in his ear and replayed their time in the basement again.
He had expected to receive a letter from her by now, but he had not.
Suddenly, Ozzie felt a burst of cool air and caught the sounds of rumbling voices. They got louder and louder, and he stood to see what was causing the commotion. He spotted six sour-faced white men with buzz cuts who looked annoyed to have wandered in on the wrong night.
“What the hell?” The hot-faced, burly leader’s words slurred in a way that suggested he was drunk and not opposed to starting a ruckus.
He pounded his fist on the bar. “Shut this party down now,” he said to the bartender.
“These niggers are in violation. I don’t care what you think Truman signed. Ain’t nothing change around here.”
“Please. No trouble,” pleaded the mustached man, wide-eyed behind the bar.
Ozzie looked to Morgan and then Thornton, who both stood in front of their partners with their feet spread apart and hands wide at their waist. The three exchanged a knowing look that said, If these guys make a move, we are on them like stink on shit.
Ozzie inched closer to the burly man disrupting the scene.
Ozzie couldn’t stand racist bullies, but what he despised even more was being disrespected in front of women.
It was why he had sucker-punched Harold, and why he hadn’t taken his eye off the troublemaker from the moment he had stepped foot inside the bar.
The mustached man behind the counter held up a wooden bat. “Leave. Now.” His accent was heavy, but his words rang clear.
The burly leader looked around the room, taking in the sight of all the Negro men and white women, and then spat on the floor in disgust. There was a frail woman with pink lips sitting alone on a barstool.
He grabbed the woman by the arm and pulled her close to him.
“What do you want with these filthy animals? Dance with me, pretty.”
“Stop.” The woman squirmed in his arms, trying to get loose. The man spun her out so hard that she stumbled backward. Ozzie caught her before she fell to the floor.
“Nigger lover,” the burly man shouted.
Ozzie didn’t think twice as he pushed the woman behind him and looked the burly man up and down.
“You need to leave, now,” the mustached man said to the troublemakers, and then patted the bat on the bar in a way that suggested he meant business.
The burly man’s laugh was raspy and defiant. “What the hell are you going to do? That your whore?” He directed his words to Ozzie.
From the corner of his eye, Ozzie saw Thornton and Morgan flagging him on both sides.
His heart was racing. He didn’t want to fight these white boys.
Nothing good would come out of it. But he wouldn’t be disrespected either.
The tension in the room was too thick to cut, even with a butcher’s knife.
Before Ozzie could answer, the mustached man stepped from behind the bar, bat in hand.
“The polizei are on the way,” he said. “You.” He pointed at the white men. “Leave now.”
The burly man spat on the floor again, eyed Ozzie one last time, and then backed out the door. As they exited, one of his friends called out, “Girls, leave those darkies alone. They all have tails between their legs!”
Ozzie felt his temples pulse, and as he moved to follow the men, Morgan grabbed him by the arms. “Naw, man. They ain’t worth it.”
Ozzie opened and balled his fist as the rage bubbled inside him. The music all of a sudden sounded off-key. The earlier spell of celebration and glee had been broken. People found their drinks and seats; some of the women reached for their sweaters and purses.
The short blonde who had danced against Morgan all night patted his cheek. “That’s why we like you better.”
“The white American soldiers are mean,” her freckled friend added. “And rude.”
“Thank you for saving me,” said the frail woman Ozzie had caught.
She smiled invitingly at him, but Ozzie couldn’t hear what she was saying beyond the thunder in his head.
His jaw had started to ache from clenching his teeth.
It wasn’t right. The Negro man couldn’t have anything.
Not a good time. Not a victory on the day of military desegregation.
Not a single breath of freedom. And most certainly not a white woman. Not even across the ocean.