Surviving an American Gulag by Edward C. Patterson

Author:Edward C. Patterson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Edward C. Patterson

Chapter Thirteen

Buddy

1

Gibbs thought Buddy Ormond was among the most moody individuals that he had ever met. One minute he was helpful, full of advice and instruction — the next minute, he was withdrawn and nettlesome. Buddy was the squad leader, one of two in B Platoon, the other being Burman, but while Burman could be a buster, Buddy was an easy burden. He assured that everyone followed Gonvea’s orders. When inspections rolled in (once a week), Buddy was helpful, but perhaps because his ass was in the crosshairs, each foot and wall locker, every crease and dust bunny became his responsibility.

Gibbs liked Ormond, who was certainly a different bunkmate than the one in Charlie Company, that prick Farley. Ormond also put Krasner in his place, and even came near to wrestling him to the floor one evening. Krasner was taunting Gibbs, and then turned on Willis. Both troops ignored his goading, so he made a comment about how Ormond was the perfect school marm, teaching his fat faggots well. Buddy smirked at that, but when Krasner added, I bet Alice doesn’t know who wears the pants in the family, Ormond leaped on Krasner, flattening him. It took Avila and Burman to pull them apart, and Avila alone to drag Krasner off for a time-out.

From all appearances, Ormond may have been hotheaded, but he had reacted as anyone would. Gibbs wasn’t sure why Ormond was even in the Special Training Unit. He seemed well adjusted. He had no problems with the tests, and he was . . . well, straight. There must have been something to land him in here, but whatever it was, it was history. Maybe he was a porker that had slimmed-down. Gibbs, after all, was shedding the pounds as quick as a walrus in a sauna.

When at ease, Ormond would stretch out on his footlocker and declare, “Time to torture myself again.” He’d whip out a picture of Alice or Mary or Mary-Alice, and sigh. On one such evening, he winked at Gibbs.

“Do you have a girl, Gibbs?”

Gibbs, who was writing a letter home, shuffled the page closed.

“No,” he stammered, as if that was the wrong answer. “Well, not currently.”

“I see.”

“How would you see?”

“It’s been my experience that whenever someone says not currently, they mean, I don’t have one. I want one; and if I knew you were going to ask that question, I would have lied.” He laughed.

Gibbs winced. Certainly, there was an implication in Buddy’s reply, but Gibbs wasn’t sure whether it was an attempt at humor or aspersion.

“Just what are you trying to say, Buddy?”

“Nothing,” Ormond said. “I’m just fucking with you.” He thrust the photo into Gibbs’ hand. Winslow had seen this photo often and in different settings — here, in formation, under trees, in the mess hall. “Just look at her. Isn’t she a knock out?”

“You mean a knock up.”

Ormond frowned, and then snapped the photo back.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. I’m just fucking with you.”

Ormond smiled.

“You know, she’s the boss’s daughter.

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