Chapter 11
OZZIE
A week after Truman’s order desegregating the military came down, Ozzie stood in the moist grass in Tent City, where he had been learning how to operate the telephone switchboard.
When he looked up from the machine in front of him, Sergeant Marshall had marched toward him with his clipboard in hand.
“Philips, Lieutenant Hill would like to see you in his office.”
Ozzie’s hands went cold. “Did the lieutenant say what this matter was about?”
“Soldier, please report immediately.” Marshall’s face was unreadable.
Ozzie trotted back across the grass toward the main building, wondering if the heated exchange he’d had with the white soldiers at the club last week had reached the ears of the lieutenant.
Even though Ozzie had not put his hands on the men, as he would have liked, he understood that they could drum up any charges against him.
It would be their word against his. At worst, he could be charged with bad conduct, placed in confinement, and docked two thirds of his monthly pay.
He walked down the corridor and located Lieutenant Hill’s name on the last office door to the right.
As he knocked on the open door, Ozzie told himself not to worry.
If it came to their word against his, he had witnesses.
“Sir, Private Philips reports as ordered.” Ozzie stepped into the office, stood at attention, and saluted the higher-ranking officer.
“Private Philips, please have a seat.”
A map of Europe was drawn on the wall behind the lieutenant, and the American flag was propped on a stand in the corner.
Ozzie lowered himself in the seat adjacent to Lieutenant Hill’s desk as the lieutenant opened a manila file folder.
A bright red stamp blazed across the piece of paper the lieutenant fingered.
Ozzie exhaled. What would his mother say?
He had been in the country only a week, and already he was in trouble.
“Philips, in all my years at Kitzingen, I have never seen anything like this.” He pushed the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts to the side and slid the packet of papers across the desk toward Ozzie.
It wasn’t a bad-conduct report, it was his aptitude test.
“Not only did you pass the exam, but you got every answer correct.” Lieutenant Hill’s eyes widened.
“Thank you, sir.”
“How on earth did you do it?”
Ozzie dropped his chin. “I like to read, sir.”
“Clearly. Well, there is no point in wasting your smarts at this training facility. I’m recommending that you be transferred to a unit in Mannheim immediately. There are a few positions available in supply, maintenance, and transportation.”
Ozzie tried to keep the frown from reaching his face. Then tilted his chin. “I’d like to work in Intelligence, sir.”
The lieutenant crinkled his brows. “I’m not sure if there are any positions available there. Besides, for Intelligence, you need to speak an additional language.”
“I’ve been studying German, and I know a good deal of Latin, sir.”
“Well, I’ll put you down for maintenance, and once you learn the ropes, you can try for branch reclassification. Now pack your things. You will move out in seventy-two hours.”
Three days later, Ozzie arrived by jeep to Sullivan Barracks in Mannheim.
Morgan, who had also tested high on the aptitude test, was at his side.
Thornton hadn’t received more than a Mississippi eighth-grade education and stayed in Kitzingen, where he was enrolled in high school equivalency classes in addition to basic training.
Sullivan Barracks was twice the size of Kitzingen.
Ozzie and Morgan had been assigned to Building 201, and when they arrived, they were pleasantly surprised by their upgraded living accommodations.
Instead of the communal sleeping quarters, the two shared a private room with two twin-size beds, a double wardrobe, and a chest of drawers for each of them.
“This is what I’m talking about.” Morgan lounged on his bed with his feet up while Ozzie opened the weathered Bible his mother had given him and removed the one photograph he had of Rita.
She was standing on her front steps with both hands on her hips, smiling, with her hair pulled away from her beautiful face.
Ozzie wanted to tape the three-by-five picture to his mirror but thought better of it.
Instead, he slipped it into his top drawer and reread his military orders.
Ozzie was to report to the motor pool for training on inspecting vehicles and equipment.
A no-brains position that couldn’t be further from what he wanted to do.
“I’m telling you, Morgan, if they think I’m going to waste my time kneeling down to these hillbillies, serving them hand and foot, they got another thought coming. Desegregation must mean something, or what’s the point.”
“At ease, soldier.” Morgan looked up from the edge of his bed, where he was tying his boots. “Progress happens in phases. All things in due time.”
“But I had a perfect aptitude score? It doesn’t make sense that I’m not in an Intelligence unit.”
Morgan stood. “Maybe all the units were full.”
Ozzie flagged his hand at him.
“Look on the bright side, you’re still stuck with me. I have the same orders, so we can watch each other’s back. Now let’s report to duty and see what the position entails. Who knows, we might learn something useful.”
Ozzie and Morgan passed their first two weeks attending PT drills in the morning, and in the afternoon, they learned the mechanics of the fleet of service vehicles they had been assigned. It did not take long for Ozzie to settle into the routine of maintenance and repair.
On Ozzie’s third week stationed in Mannheim, two squads from his platoon were tasked with passing out care packages and supplies to local German residents.
They loaded up two cargo trucks and drove west of the barracks.
Since arriving, he hadn’t spent much time off base, and as he peered out the window, the landscape changed dramatically.
There were buildings with the entire roof blown to shreds, chunks of cement rubble, stacks of broken bricks, and piles of sewage debris, detritus and destruction from World War II.
His platoon drove through entire villages that had been air-bombed and crumbled into concrete ruins.
White dust covered everything. Ozzie knew many Negroes who lived below the poverty line, but this former war zone felt abysmal.
The three-axle trucks rumbled to a stop in an open field adjacent to a village slum dotted with tiny houses and gnome-size gardens. Ozzie noticed that most of the homes needed a fresh coat of paint. As the men unloaded boxes from the backs of the trucks, the villagers stood by in anticipation.
Germany was still coming off its worst hunger years, and many of the residents looked gaunt.
Bony women hung thin babies on narrow hips, scrawny old men leaned gingerly on canes, a group of lanky boys kicked a ball.
There was a slight breeze rustling through a patch of maple and English walnut trees, bringing with it the smell of soot.
First Sergeant Tom Petty, the company first sergeant, had pale skin and a thick neck.
Once the men had climbed from the vehicles, he started barking orders on how to set up the supplies and distribute them.
“Keep a tally of who gets what,” he yelled.
“One load per family. No seconds. Nothing extra. We need enough to go around.”
The men lined up prepackaged loaves of bread, canned meat, butter, hazelnut paste, coffee, and small canisters of sugar, along with wool blankets, flashlights, and batteries because the power was known to go out in these parts of town.
Ozzie stood behind the table piled with blankets, feeling proud to serve in his uniform.
As he doled out provisions, he noticed a slender woman with saucer-shaped eyes watching him.
Finally, she stepped up to the table. He handed her a blanket.
“This is not enough.” Her voice was low, and she pronounced “this” like “zis,” but Ozzie understood.
“It’s all we have to give, ma’am.”
“My papa is ill. Do you have pills?” The woman’s hair was pulled back into a loose chignon, her small forehead on full display.
They were not a medic squad, but there was a first-aid kit inside each of the supply trucks. Ozzie didn’t know what had come over him, but he asked the soldier next to him to keep watch over his station. “I have to take a leak,” he said.
Ozzie walked back to the parking lot and rifled through the emergency pack in the truck. The woman followed and stood a few feet away.
Ozzie found the packets of acetaminophen, a few bandages, alcohol wipes, and cotton swabs. “What’s wrong with him?”
“His head.” She reached for the packet, and their fingers touched.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” It was First Sergeant Petty. “This isn’t the time for conversation, Philips.” He turned to the woman. “Has this man harmed you?” he asked, his accent white and Southern.
She shook her head.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? Has he touched you in any way?” he said louder.
“First Sergeant, I was helping her.”
“I didn’t ask you, Private. Speak only when spoken to,” he sneered, then turned back to the woman. “Ma’am, do you speak English?”
“I am fine.” She turned on her heel and stomped away.
“Stay in the vehicle, Philips, until further instructions are given,” Petty ordered before storming off. Ozzie ground his teeth. Within the hour, the soldiers had passed out all the supplies, and they were back on the road, heading toward the barracks.
The next morning, when Ozzie reported for PT exercise, Petty pulled him out of the line.
“What you did yesterday was unacceptable. Under no circumstances do you go off with a local woman without a battle buddy while on duty. It’s against protocol.”
“First Sergeant.”