Buck must find two college students Ch.17

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 17

Fifteen minutes later Patric returned, wet and smelling of swamp, but otherwise unharmed. He stood next to the jeep and dripped.

Scotty said, “Good work, Patric.”

Approximately twenty minutes later Corey appeared out of the north ditch. He was muddy and unscathed except for a small slash on his shoulder. He climbed into the jeep, and we were off, back down the road to the highway.

Scotty said, “Save the reports until we’re back at base.” We rode in silence and reached the motel around midnight. Corey and Patric showered first and came to my room. Corey had bandaged the small slash.

I had my notepad ready. Scotty said, “Patric, you first, although I can say that your results were visible and revealing.”

“First, I went into the swamp after the lights went out until I was perpendicular to the pens. An airboat was parked a little to the north. The dogs didn’t pick up my scent, so I went in closer, tapped-tapped my knife on a fallen log. The dogs came to the swamp side of the pen, but they still couldn’t detect me, so I picked up a stick, stood up and threw it at the pen. The stick hit the fencing, and that’s when they started barking. I lay dead still behind the log with just my nose and eyes above water. I knew I was invisible unless someone came into the water and looked directly over the log. I figured they wouldn’t do that since they were all preparing for bed after a day’s work. My greatest fear was that they would let the dogs out.

“I thought their initial reaction of looking around with flashlights and calming the dogs was reasonable, but not what we were looking for. So, when they had gone back into the trailers, I came out of the swamp and ran at the pens with my knife drawn. The dogs reacted as I hoped. Two Dobermans, a shepherd and a bloodhound. Beanland likes big dogs.

“I immediately spun around and went back into the swamp. I pushed the log I had tapped on north so it was floating toward some brush. I side-stroked south then went underwater when I heard them coming again. I used a straw to breathe and back crawled to the edge of the ditch. As I had hoped, they noticed the movement of the log and mistook it for a large gator.

“When the spotlight came, it revealed the log. Now they were confused. That’s when they brought out the heavy firearms and let loose. By that time, I was in the ditch and crouching in cover.

“Once the firing had stopped and they had gone back inside, I used my infrared detectors to look at the compound. The individuals inside the trailers were slowly cooling down. The dogs were pacing. There were two other warm-bodied subjects in the second shed. I couldn’t tell if they were animal or human. They were not moving.

“By the way, the ditch has gators in it, not large ones, but one clamped onto my boot, so I had to club him a bit.”

Scotty said, “Good report. Bucky, any questions?”

I said, “Not now. Let’s hear from Corey.”

Corey gave his report in the present tense. “I’m in position when the lights go out, a point maybe ten feet from the northwest corner of the compound. My ground has less water than Patric’s; it is thick, dark muck with cover water of only a foot or two. I had made two hamburger patties stuffed with sedative. I toss those into the compound and squat behind a palmetto, so only my head and shoulders are above water. When I hear the dogs approaching, I draw my knife and wait.

“They’re Rottweilers, big, husky critters and well trained. A male and a female. I think they smell me and the hamburgers at the same time. They sniff the burgers, then come to the edge of the swamp and sniff the air and bark. I’m as still as I can be. Then they go back to the burgers and wolf them down. I guess they think they can eat and take care of me, too.

“The big male comes back to the edge of the swamp and sniffs the air. He’s bunching his muscles and growling. I’m ready but I’m hoping that he waits long enough for the drug to hit. He doesn’t. He launches himself at my smell. I know he can’t really see me, but he trusts his nose. He’s coming down and I’m raising my knife. I catch him in the chest as he lands on me and I shove him down into the muck.

“I’m up quick and see the female running toward the edge, following her man. And I know she sees me now. I brace for the blow; then she kind of stumbles. I guess the drug is working. She stumbles and tumbles into swamp toward me. I grab her and slit her throat and push her down into the muck.

“I’m thinking that if I hide them in the muck, they won’t come up for a few days, and Beanland will think they ran off into the swamp after something. I push them both down as far as I can until they’re deep in the sticky stuff.

“Then I rinse myself with the swampy water, put on my night goggles and proceed through the camp, checking the cabins. When the commotion starts at the other end, some of the residents come to their doors and look out, or look out the windows, but most don’t. Nobody goes farther than their steps. Nobody wants to chance the dogs coming.

“I go cabin by cabin, but I can’t say for sure that the boys are in any of them. Five cabins have at least two young men.” He marked and numbered the cabins on my map. “These are the five.

“After I go down each row, I go back to the swamp and make my way to you. My ditch has gators just like Patric’s. That’s it.”

Scotty said, “Good work, Corey.”

I said, “How did you get the cut?”

“I think it happened when the first dog landed on me. I’m not sure if it was a tooth or a claw. I noticed it first when I was rinsing. I’m sorry I had to kill the dogs. They were prime.”

Scotty said, “Couldn’t be helped. All right, lads, that’ll do. Go get some sleep.” It was past one in the morning.

I said, “I’m beat. How ‘bout we get some sleep ourselves and discuss what we know mañana?”

Scotty said, “Sounds good to me.”

We drove back to the motel in Naples. I was asleep shortly after my head touched the pillow. My last thought was of Cyndi.

END of Chapter 17
 
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Buck must find two college students Ch.16

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 16

Scotty’s team had arrived in a slate-gray panel truck pulling a matted-black jeep. For that night’s mission, Scotty unhooked the jeep. The jeep had roll bars but no top. Scotty said, “If it’s not armored, what’s the use of a top for these guys? Just restricts range of motion and blocks fields of fire.”


I had dressed in black clothing. Scotty, Patric and Corey were in swamp-camouflaged fatigues. Each man carried a mini walkie-talkie headset, a knife, an automatic, and night goggles.

By the time we arrived at the cutoff road to Beanland’s compound, it was nine thirty. Scotty cut the headlights and drove as silently as he could until he was a quarter mile from the compound. Then he cut the engine and we coasted to a stop. We could see the lights of the compound and hear voices. Parked on the other side of the fence were four old, repainted-green school buses, a white van, and Beanland’s black truck.

Scotty spoke in a whisper. “Patric, Corey, when you have to communicate, keep your voices low. Sound will carry a great distance over these wetlands. Ok, any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Go.”

The two disappeared swiftly, one to the left, one across the road to the right, but they went softly, silently. No splash indicated they had entered the water-filled ditches. No scraping of dirt or rocks indicated they had ascended the banks opposite us and each other. No clatter indicated that they were passing swiftly on the hidden sides of the banks.

Scotty said, “Let’s give them a half hour to get in place.”

I sat silently in the jeep, looking at the compound, hoping for a happy resolution for the sake of Señor Concepción and the two boys. I looked up. The dark, moonless sky was not overcast, just a few clouds passing like shadows in front of the stars, whose myriad number and twinkling brightness always startled me when I left the city for the glades or the ocean. We forget the preciousness of life, the beauty of existence until an evil thing comes to us, like the cloud blocking the light of the stars.

Scotty said, “Patric’s in place. Twenty-six minutes.”

A few minutes later, lights flashed on and off inside the compound – then lights out. The increased ground darkness increased the bright intensity of the stars. I looked up again.

Scotty said, “Corey’s set. Thirty-two minutes.” He handed me his night goggles.

I put them to my eyes and focused toward the camp. A large, illuminated-green humanoid figure was strolling from the cabins toward the dog pens. Other green human glowworms were standing outside the cook’s trailer. They were gesturing at one another.

The large human shape went to the pens, and six dog-shaped glowworms jumped and twirled. The human shape pulled a gate open and two of the barking glowworms lunged out of the fence and ran toward the cabins.

I said, “I think he’s let the Rottweilers out.”

Scotty took the goggles and looked. “Could be. I count a total of four figures. Three men and a woman.”

“Somebody’s got a wife.”

He handed me the goggles. Now I could see the woman – stout and wearing pants. She and a potbellied man waved at the man they had been talking to and went into the cook’s trailer. The cook had a wife. The other figure went to the custodian’s trailer and went inside. Suddenly, the large man, Beanland surely, turned the corner of the doublewide, stopped and seemed to be looking straight at me. I inhaled sharply. Then he turned and went inside the doublewide.

Scotty said, “They should be doing the preliminaries by now.”

We could hear low barks from the north end of the compound. Then those sounds died. Silence.

Silence for ten minutes. Then the penned dogs began barking and howling. Their fierce barks rose in volume.

The door to the doublewide opened and Beanland stepped out. A light came on in his hand. He panned the flashlight east toward the pens. The dogs increased their clamor. Beanland walked to the far end of the pen and flashed his light over the swampy area.

Another flashlight popped on near the second guard trailer. Another large man walked toward Beanland and said something – a question – maybe “What’s up?” Beanland replied, but I couldn’t make out words – maybe “Don’t know.” They both panned their lights across the watery surface of the swamp.

Beanland turned to the pens and made down motions with his hands. He said something to the dogs. The dogs slowly ceased barking. Both flashlights led back to the trailers.

No sooner had the two men entered their trailers than the barking erupted again, this time fiercer and louder as if the dogs themselves were threatened. The two men came out again and walked toward the pens, their flashlights playing back and forth as they walked. Then the first trailer’s door opened and Cocker stepped out, carrying his shotgun. He, too, went toward the pens.

Then the custodian’s door opened and a man stepped out, shorter than the others, but broad-shouldered and sinewy. He carried a battery spotlight, whose light illuminated the pen area and beyond. I could hear questions and muttered replies, but words were hard to make out.

Then the cook’s door opened and he and his wife came out armed; he, with a shotgun, and she, with a pistol. They joined the crew at the pens. The custodian shined his spotlight over the face of the swamp. The dogs kept barking. But the dogs had no words to tell exactly what they had seen and no fingers to give direction.

Beanland waved to the shed closest to the trailers, and he, the first guard and the custodian went there. He unlocked the shed and opened the doors. The men went in and came out carrying rifles of some kind. They returned to the area behind the pens. The spotlight was set down and propped up to illuminate the swamp.

I heard a shout, clearly this time. “Fire!” The shotguns roared, the pistol banged and the rifles chattered – automatic weapons! The dark surface of the swamp shook and shimmered from the multiple splashes. A cordite cloud drifted up from the flashing weapons. The shooters swept their weapons back and forth, spraying into the swamp.

I put my hand on Scotty’s shoulder. He said, “Don’t worry. Patric can handle this.”

The firing died, replaced by whooping and nervous laughter. The dogs had stopped barking. Somebody, I think it was the cook, shouted clearly, “Whatever it was won’t be back for a while!” They laughed some more and went back to their trailers. The automatic weapons were locked in the shed and Beanland walked to the doublewide. His mountainous bulk was the last to disappear into his abode.

End of Chapter 16

Night missions are a prime operation for special ops people.  Below are items related to this blog.

Explication of a poem

Explication of “Migrunt”


In the three-stanza poem “Migrunt,” the poet uses short lines, diction related to pain, enjambment, and deliberate misspelling of nouns to transmit the debilitating work of migrant laborers. The three stanzas are connected by a rhyming of the final line of each stanza: “heads” (line 3), “bed” (line 5), and “dead” (line 7). By misspelling “migrant” in the title, the poet sets the tone, indicating that the migrant’s work is grunt work, the work that few people would want to do and that because of the physical strain that is put on the body, causes one to grunt as one moves from plant to plant.

The first stanza is a tercet in which we learn that the migrant has been working for twenty years but the poet uses the word “spent” to end the first line. “Spent” has the meaning not only of passing time, but also of being exhausted (line 1). The first enjambment occurs as the sentence continues on the next line (2) with a descriptive word “Bent” set off with commas to give a sense of the pain that goes with exhaustion, and concluding with a prepositional phrase “with a short woe” (line 2) The typical tool for working with lettuce is a short hoe that requires the laborer to squat or bend to weed around each head of lettuce. This is dirty, excruciating work in the hot, humid spring and summer, so the poet transposes a “w” for the “h” to give the sense of suffering that the migrant’s body is enduring. Line 3 is “Caressing lettuce heads” which implies that the migrant is taking great care with his job as if touching the head of a loved one.

A couplet makes up the painful second stanza. “Then he lay, doubled,” is the first line of the stanza, which indicates that the migrant may be in some pain (line 4). Another enjambment occurs taking the reader to the added description “Twisted,” (line 5) once again set off with commas as an addition to “doubled,” implying even greater pain, perhaps twisted muscles or ligaments or inflamed joints. The stanza ends with another prepositional phrase “in his bed” (line 5). The implication is depressing: a bed should be a place of rest and recuperation, but the migrant continues to suffer even abed.

The final couplet ends the short tale of the migrant’s life: “Thirty-six is no age” (line 6). In this nihilistic statement is an implied contrast with what most people think is the prime of life when one might be educated, raising a family, paying a mortgage, and advancing in a chosen career; but for the migrant, life is ending because the work has robbed him of youth and health. The final line “To be old, or dead” (line 7) shows that the migrant, who began working in the fields at sixteen, has grown old—bent over with arthritic pain, his body full of pesticide and fertilizer residue—sick and will die much younger than most Americans because of the work he had to do, so Americans could enjoy fresh salads that kept them youthful.

This poem, as short as a migrant’s life, and crabbed with painful meaning, reveals the labor that can shorten a life.



Work cited

Blanton, Jerry. “Migrunt.” Monsters in a Half-way House. Tampa, Florida: TheTampa Bay Poets.1981.24.

Below are other kinds of explications.

migrant farmworkers

MIGRUNT

Twenty years he spent,

Bent, with a short woe,

Caressing lettuce heads.

Then he lay, doubled,

Twisted, in his bed.

Thirty-six is no age

To be old, or dead.

1971

"Migrunt" was first published in Monsters in Half-way House, 1981.  Beginning in 2008, I have used it as part of an exercise in writing explications in my composition and literature classes at Miami Dade College.

Farmworkers work very hard to provide other Americans with relatively cheap, nutritional food.  However, the work can be debilitating because of the constant bending, working in the hot sun, and exposure to pesticides and fertilizers.

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Buck must find two college students Ch.15

Buck's diagram of Beanfields migrant camp

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter15


I rode back with Suarez. As we drove away down the dirt road, whom should we meet walking steadily toward us, but Iris.

I said, “Should we pass her, teach her a lesson?”

Suarez said, “Did you tell her not to come out?”

“No.”

“Then let’s not do something you might regret later.” He stopped the car beside her. I open the rear door so she could get in.

She slid in and said, “Why did you leave me?”

“We thought there might be some danger in this visit.”

“I could have stayed in the car.”

“Couldn’t take the chance.”

“Where are we going now?”

“Back to the station.”

“Damn, I miss all the fun.”

On the ride back, Suarez asked me, “What do you think?”

“I think Cocker was telling as much of the truth as he knew, but he doesn’t know much. He’s just a warm body for Beanland to order around.”

“We still don’t have enough to get a warrant.”

“I know. What about that setup? A little extreme for a migrant camp.”

“Yes, a little, but nothing illegal. But a very controlled space.”

“I’d like to see it in the evening when everyone’s there.”

“I suggest going before ten o’clock, and I have a hunch that once dinner was served, you’d have trouble getting in the gate. Especially since Cocker will tell Beanland that the police visited today.”

Then my cell phone trilled. I knew it was Ruben and just said, “Go,” which was our signal that I was compromised and couldn’t say much back.

Ruben said, “Scotty’s on his way with four buddies. He said to give you a cell number for this mission. You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” He gave me the number and I wrote it down in my pad, holding the pad toward the window, so Suarez couldn’t read the number.

“Shevonne has nearly wrapped up her case. Nothing else to report. Caridad says to tell you she’s lighting candles and burning incense for you tonight.”

“Say ‘thanks’ for me.”

“Cierto. See you later.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Suarez let us out in the parking lot at the station. We got in my car and headed back to my motel room. It was nearly three o’clock. Iris was sulking a little, but her mind was too inventive to leave her in an emotional morass for long. On the way I dialed the number Ruben had given me.

Scotty answered immediately. “Bucky, old friend, we’re nearing the toll booth on the alley. Should be there in two hours max.”

“Good. Come to my motel. I’ll get rooms for everyone. After you get here, we’ll have a planning session”

“Righto.”

I gave him directions and signed off.

Iris remained perturbed that I had left her behind. She said, “That wasn’t nice, Buck. You know I wanted to go with you.”

“I thought it could get dangerous.”

“Damn.”

“I know, sounds exciting, but it wasn’t: just an old man standing guard over the camp. That’s all there was.”

“Was it the fat man’s camp?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. I knew he was bad news. Who’s coming to the motel?”

“Some backup.”

“Cool.”

Back in the motel, I drew on a piece of typing paper a layout of Beanland’s camp. I labeled the buildings and areas. I wanted to be ready when Scotty arrived.

Then I lay back and argued with myself:

You don’t really know if the boys are there.


My gut tells me they are.


If they’re going out and working in the fields, why haven’t they escaped?


Maybe they can’t; maybe they’re afraid.


How do you know they’re not dead already?


If they are, I intend to find that out.


How are you going to do that?


I’m going to catch them out. In daylight if I can. In darkness if I have to.


And then?


We’ll take them home.

Iris had been looking at my drawing of the camp. I told her that some operatives were coming from Miami, so she would have to get her own room.

Her eyes widened. “Reinforcements? Are we going to see action?”

“You’re not going to see anything. Why hasn’t your mother come to fetch you?”

“She said her car broke down. It’s in the shop.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Shortly after five o’clock, Scotty called. They were in the parking lot. I went down and checked them in: two to a room with Scotty in my room. I got a single room for Iris.

When I introduced Iris, the five men gave me a quizzical, slightly disapproving look, so I decided I should give a more thorough explanation. I said, “Iris was hitchhiking, so I gave her a ride. She lives in Fort Myers. Her mother was supposed to come here and get her, but her car broke down. She’s a good kid. Very bright, but stubborn as an old billygoat.”


Iris shook everybody’s hand and insisted on getting the names right. She said, “God, you’re all so ripped.”

Scotty had brought a choice crew, all tough, hard-bodied and fearless: Mario Rubio, Joe Pasasano, Corey Mimms and Patric O’Connor. Mario was hugely muscled and extremely strong. The others less so, but compared to the average American, they had hardly any fat and were very strong and conditioned. All had been in the military and understood discipline.

They were hungry, but I didn’t want to waste time at a restaurant, and I needed Scotty. I sent the four younger men out to eat with Iris and ordered Chinese in for Scotty and me.

Iris loved being the center of the younger men and took them to a steak house.

Scotty took a shower, wrapped himself in a motel bathrobe, and sat down to munch through the take-out packages. He looked like any white-skinned, brown-haired, blue-eyed American in top physical condition and gave away his British roots only when he spoke. “So, Bucky, what do you have for us?”

“Could be dangerous.”

“Well, my friend, danger is what we do.”

“I’ve tracked two missing college students to a migrant camp near Immokalee.” I spread my drawing out on the table. “The supervisor of the camp is a mean son-of-bitch and big – over three hundred pounds. He’s got four assistants.” I pointed out the administrative area of the compound. “I’m not sure how tough his assistants are or how well armed they are, but my feeling is that they’re not in great shape.”

“But that should be reconnoitered before we move.”

“Of course. But I’ve also thought that maybe we could seize the two students in the fields during daytime or even stop the bus and take them off.”

“There will be more than one bus for a camp this size.” His eyes twinkled. “I see why you called us in. We’re going to be very busy.”

“Yeah. I figure a little reconnaissance tonight, some surveillance and tracking tomorrow.”

“Good: Plan and prepare thoroughly before attack. Be aware of all contingencies. Be ready for the unexpected.”

I smiled. “Good to have you with me, Scotty.”

“Great to be here, Bucky. Let me ask you a question. Has Beanland met you or seen your car?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to stay in the background until we move.”

By the time the troops and Iris returned from dinner, Scotty and I had our plan worked out. I sent Iris to her room. Then Scotty and I had a mission meeting with all of the force members. I gave each of them one of the flyers with Nano’s and Paulie’s photos. “These are the two missing college students. We want to try to seize them with as little commotion as possible, but we have to act within the next forty-eight hours. That’s because the person who is holding them knows I’m looking for them. I’m afraid he might try to get rid of them soon, and he’s got the whole Everglades to hide the bodies in. The reason I called you in is that the police don’t have enough evidence to do anything at this time. I’d like to think of us as police auxiliaries. Scotty will now go over the details of the plan.”

“Righto. All right, men, I want Patric and Corey to do some reconnaissance tonight. Mario and Joe will do tracking surveillance tomorrow. And I hope that by tomorrow evening, Bucky and I will have a plan that’s actionable.”

Scotty laid out the map of Beanland’s camp and continued. “Here’s the compound. Any weapons that the supervisor has will be in this administrative area. Notice the dog pen. It contains six trained attack dogs. Patric, I want you to test the response to an intruder. Work your way into the swamp east of the dog pens; the dogs will probably scent you and start barking. If they don’t, you’ll have to move in and make them react. We need to know what Beanland will do.”

Patric replied in his Jamaican accent, “Awright, mahn.”

“Be careful. This could get dangerous.”

Patric grinned and said, “Not like I’ve not been here before.” (He had been an Army Ranger.)

Scotty went on. “Corey, I want you to work your way in west of the compound near the north end. Beanland, the supervisor, releases two dogs shortly after ten o’clock. They run the perimeter of the compound. If you can sedate the dogs, that will be to your advantage. Then I want you to work your way through the compound to see if you can locate the college boys. If we know exactly where they are, our job will be that much easier.”

Corey said, “What if I find them? Can I bring them out then?”

Scotty looked at me. I nodded. He said, “Bring them out if you can. I’ll leave that to your judgment. But if a hue and cry is raised, you might put them in jeopardy.”

“I won’t take them if I have any doubts.”

“Good. Ok, you two, get dressed for swampy night work and ready any gear you’ll need.”

Then Scotty turned to Mario and Joe. “I want you two out before dawn near the turn off road to the camp. Dress like laborers. When the buses leave for the day’s work, I want you to trail them and plot likely ambush points. It might be possible to take the boys off the buses or in the fields.”

Joe said, “What if we see the boys? Can we grab them?”

“Only if it’s quick and clean.”

“We wouldn’t do it unless we were sure.”

“Good. Ok, you two, go get your stuff ready, then get a good night’s sleep. I’ll wake you around four thirty.” He looked at me. “What time is it?”

“After eight.”

“Then we better get ourselves ready.”


END of Chapter 15

Draft induction, Vietnam War

NICKEL-PLATED ANGELS

The first time I saw Terry Hawkins, he proudly wore cowboy boots, blue jeans, a broad leather belt, a snap-button brown plaid cowboy shirt and a sweat-stained cowboy hat. He had eyes as blue as the Florida sky and a thatch of red hair like the top of a palm tree. He had a thin, sinewy form as a young farmhand should have had, so I perceived he was a true cowboy, even though we were in Florida.

Many people don’t know this, but the interior of Florida has a thriving cattle industry, both dairy and beef. In fact, Muddy Flats, Florida, was the center of a ranching community: 50,000 cattle and 10,000 people.

However, when I met Terry he was leaving his familiar range and heading for Miami, Florida, a place that rarely saw the likes of him. We had both boarded a Greyhound bus with tickets provided by the Selective Service Administration, otherwise known as the draft board. The year was 1968; the Vietnam War was at the height of its carnage.

Why was I in Muddy Flats? Three days before my student deferment expired, I had been hired to teach there, which qualified me for another deferment – teaching in a disadvantaged area. I had called my draft board immediately and was told to fill out the appropriate paperwork, which they would send me.

Before that paperwork could be processed, I received a notice to report for a draft physical in Jacksonville in September. I applied for a change to the draft center in Miami since Muddy Flats was closer to Miami. In October I received a second notice to report for a physical, in Miami in November.

On the appointed morning, my wife drove me to the Greyhound Bus Terminal; I showed the draft summons and was given a ticket. Carrying my small overnight bag, I boarded the bus for Miami and sat in a seat next to a window. I pulled out the paperback book I was reading, Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain, and settled in for the ride.

A few minutes later, a thin, muscular redhead in a cowboy hat stumbled on board and announced, “I’m going to Miami for the military exam. Where’s the other guy from Muddy Flats?”

I raised my hand. He came over, tossed his bag onto the luggage rack and plopped down beside me and offered his hand. “Terry Hawkins.” As soon as he said that, the bus with a roar pulled away from the station.

Although I could smell beer on his breath, I shook his hand. “Mike Stanover.”

He said, “I’m glad you’re not a nigger. I was afraid you’d be a nigger.”

Inside I cringed. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was one of my heroes, but I restrained myself since I would be riding next to the bigot for at least three hours.

“I knew you weren’t no spic ‘cause of your name.”

“I gather you don’t like Mexicans or Blacks.”

“I don’t. We’d be better off without ‘em. Don’t care for foreigners neither. Hate anyone that don’t speak English.”

“Miami’s got a lot of all of those.” My wife was an immigrant, half-Dutch, half-Latina. She spoke four languages.

“Hate Miami. Hate cities in general.”

“How much education do you have?”

“Dropped out of high school. Can’t stand college educated people. Hate teachers.”

“You work on a farm?”

“Ranch. Herd cattle. Fix fences. What do you do?”

“I teach at the high school.”

“Damn. Guess I stuck my foot in, didn’t I?”

“I’m college educated. Do you hate me?”

“Maybe not.”

“Did you get a draft notice?”

“Yeah, but I volunteered. The Marines.”

“That’s tough. You ready?”

“Yeah, I want it tough.”

“You’ll see plenty of fighting.”

“That’s what I want.”

“I’m just going for the draft physical. What made you decide to volunteer?”

“Want to fight for my country. Besides, I was getting drafted anyway.”

“You like Vietnamese?”

“Hate Gooks.”

“Do you know where Vietnam is?”

“Nope. Never been there.”

“From here, it’s close to halfway around the world.”

“Can’t grab that.”

“Do you know why we’re fighting?”

“Never thought about it. If I’m needed, I’m going.”

Before we finished our chat, Terry ran through all the groups that he hated a couple more times. The list seemed to include everyone on earth who wasn’t just like him. Then he decided to take a nap. Before that he asked about the book I had in my hands. “What’re you reading?”

“Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain.”

“Mark Twain? I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s most famous for Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.”

“Heard of them, too.” Then he pulled his hat down over his eyes and napped.

By the light of the window, I finally read the first letter that Satan wrote to God about the planet Earth’s inhabitants:

"This is a strange place, an extraordinary place, and interesting. There is nothing resembling it at home. The people are all insane, the other animals are all insane, the earth is insane. Man is a marvelous curiosity. When he is at his very very best he is sort of a low grade nickel-plated angel; at his worst he is unspeakable, unimaginable; and first and last and all the time he is a sarcasm. Yet he blandly and in all sincerity calls himself the 'noblest work of God.'”

I glanced at Terry snoozing beside me. He was a piece of work. Did he have any realization that by going to ‘Nam that he was defending all the diversity that he despised?

He slept almost all the way to Miami and snored on and off. I nudged him awake as the bus stopped in front of a hotel on Biscayne Boulevard. “Hey, Terry, we’re here.”

He blustered awake, grabbed his bag and stumbled off onto the hot, humid, hard sidewalks of Miami. I followed him.

“Damn big buildings around here. I guess they got elevators.”

“Sure. Let’s go register.”

The lobby was huge, the size of a basketball court, with couches and chairs spread around over a red carpet. The lobby bubbled noisily with young men like us who were there for either a draft assessment physical or an induction physical. I led Terry to the front desk and handed my summons to the clerk, a short young Latina. Terry handed his over, too.

“Yes, Mr. Stanover, you are in Room 406. Mr. Hawkins, you are also in Room 406. Go right there and you’ll see an elevator on the right. You can take that to the fourth floor.”

“Damn, Mike, I guess they figured since we’re from the same town, they made us roomies.”

“Looks like it.” He wouldn’t have been my choice of roommate, but I could see the logic of it since we came from a small town. Neither the marines nor the army would have any idea that we had never met before that day, or that Terry was an uneducated redneck cowboy and long-time resident of the community whereas I was a college-educated newcomer, just the kind of person Terry hated.

Before we had taken a step, an amplified voice behind us shouted. “All candidates for draft or enlistment, pay attention.”

We turned toward the voice. An army sergeant stood with a bullhorn. “Supper will be served at six o’clock until seven o’clock in the restaurant behind me. You will have a choice of three main courses. You must be on time. If you are late or if you don’t like any of the choices on the menu, then you must pay for your own supper.

“After supper your time is your own, but I suggest that you get to sleep in your rooms by ten o’clock because breakfast will be served at six o’clock in the morning. Bring all your gear with you to breakfast. If you miss breakfast, you’ll be very hungry the rest of the day because the examination process with take until the afternoon. Once in the examination building, you will not be allowed to leave.

“You are now dismissed until supper.”

Some guys went to the sergeant and asked questions, but Terry and I wanted to go to our room. We found the elevator doors and pushed the button and waited as the elevator rattled down to us.

When the door opened, before us stood a stout, bespectacled, middle-aged Latino in black pants, white shirt and a red vest. The elevator was the old-fashioned kind with an operator. The operator nodded to us. We got in and I said, “Fourth Floor” and held up four fingers. The doors closed and the box began rising.

Addressing the elevator operator, Terry said, “Does this joint have a lounge?” The operator said nothing.

“Hey,” Terry said louder, “I’m talking to you.” He poked the man’s arm with his finger.

With a puzzled look, the man turned to look at Terry.

“What’s a matter? Don’t you speak English?”

“No hablo ingles.”

Glaring at the man, Terry fluttered his fingers around his throat and trilled a long guttural “r” that sounded like a dog growling. “r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.” That performance was his imitation of Spanish articulation.

I cringed again. I knew that a lot of the early refugees from Castro’s dictatorship had been professionals – doctors, lawyers, professors – in Cuba, but because of the language barrier, they couldn’t practice their professions in the United States, so they had taken any jobs available to them in order to support their families until they learned enough English and retrained themselves to pass the bars in a much different system. I suspected that the poor elevator operator might have been one of those; he seemed gentlemanly. If so, he was much more highly educated and cultured than the redneck clown who was humiliating him.

Mercifully, the doors opened onto the fourth floor. I stepped out and barked, “Come on, Terry. Leave the poor guy alone.”

Terry stepped out but yelled into the shutting doors, “Learn English, you spic bastard!”

I said, “He’s not Mexican. He’s Cuban. He fled Communism for the freedom in America. Give him a break. He’s just trying to earn a living.”

“If they come to this county, they outta [ought to] learn English.”

Our room had two beds and overlooked the boulevard and Biscayne Bay. I went onto the balcony to admire the view and saw that our balcony was joined with the room north of ours. The two inhabitants of that room were already out on the balcony: a tall one leaning on the railing, a short, thin one slouched in a chair. They said hello, so I went over to meet them.

“Hi, Mike Stanover. Are you guys part of the draft physical?”

“Sure,” said a tall brunette. “Name’s Dane Michaels.”

I shook his hand. “Drafted?”

“No, actually, I graduated from college and lost my deferment, so I joined the Air Force. I figured that’d be better than the army.”

“Wise move.”

Dane’s roommate was a scrawny dishwater blond. He said, “Doug Rivers. I’m drafted. I’m screwed. I’m hoping to fail the test. Haven’t eaten anything much for two weeks. Some guys pack in food to go over the weight limit. I figured I was too skinny to do that, so I’m trying to go the other way.”

“How’s that going?”

“Can’t say, but I’m hungry as hell and have lost seven pounds. Could eat a whole cow if I let myself.”

“Are you eating tonight?”

“I’ll eat and drink enough to keep me alive, but I want to be as weak as I can be by tomorrow.”

Terry came out onto the balcony. I said, “Let me introduce my roommate. Fellows, this is Terry Hawkins. He’s volunteered for the marines.”

In unison, the two from Room 404 said, “Ouch.”

Terry came over, shook hands, and introductions went around again. We all got chairs from our rooms, pulled them up so we could put our feet up, smoked cigarettes and talked about the war that was tearing the country apart. No one was crazy about the war, but we all agreed that the one thing we wouldn’t do was flee the country.

Terry remained quiet until Doug said, “So, Terry, what’re you going to do?”

“After dinner, I’m going to get drunk as hell and party like this is my last day on earth.”

“The marines are a tough outfit.”

“Well, if you’re gonna fight, you gotta fight with the best.”

Dinner was bland but filling. Dane and Terry and I cleaned our plates. Doug ate a couple bites of his steak and one small dinner roll and washed it down with water. The sergeant that we had seen with the bullhorn earlier came over and said, “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you eating?”

Doug smiled and said, “Guess I’m a little nervous. That always makes me queasy.”

“Well, get as much down as you can.”

“Maybe I’ll be hungrier at breakfast.”

When the sergeant turned to walk around other tables, we other three grabbed some of Doug’s food and put it on our plate and ate it.

When the sergeant came back around, he glanced at Doug’s plate and said, “That’s more like it.”

We returned to the balcony and decided to walk around downtown and get a beer somewhere. With his cowboy outfit, Terry was the oddball in the group; the rest of us could have arrived from any suburb in any city.

We hadn’t gone more than two and a half blocks when we saw a neon sign announcing “Bar.” We pushed the door open and went inside the narrow front into a dimly lit, smoky, alcohol-infused atmosphere. At the back of the bar came the clink of billiard balls.

We lined up along the counter and ordered beer, although Doug said, “I’m only drinking half; one of you can have the rest.” Then Terry ordered a shot of whisky, threw it down and blurted, “Who-o-o-wee!” loud enough so the seasoned bartender, who could sense trouble, gave him a quick glance.

Dane said, “Let’s sit over there.”

We followed him to a small square table and sat and sipped our beers, all except Terry, who stood at the bar and ordered another shot of whisky.

Dane said, “I don’t think Terry’s as gung ho about joining the marines as he pretends to be.”

Doug agreed. “Yeah, he seems to be washing that decision down with a lot of liquid courage.”

Terry strutted over and leaned down over my shoulder. “Mike, I want you to know that you’re the first college-educated person I ever liked.”

“Thanks. I’m glad to hear that.”

He straightened up. “I can’t sit when I’m drinking. Think I’ll play some pool. You guys want to play?”

Dane said, “I can’t speak for everyone, but I’m just going to drink this one beer and then head back to the hotel. It’s already nearly nine. We’re supposed to be in our rooms by ten.”

“Me, too,” said Doug.

“I think that’s the wise thing to do,” I added.

“Screw that,” said Terry and turned to wander to the back of the bar where the pool players smoked, drank and sent the wooden balls skittering around the green felt-covered tables.

Dane, Doug and I chatted about girls; I said I was married, and Dane said, “I’m getting married after my stint is over. We’re engaged.” Doug said, “I had a steady, but when I got drafted, I thought, why tie myself down until I get out. So we broke up. Then she told me she was pregnant. I said to get an abortion. She said she didn’t believe in it. So I said that if I made it through the war, I’d come back and see if we still cared about each other. She didn’t like that and told me to go to hell. I guess that’s where I’m going unless the skinny thing works.”

We finished our beers and sat there chatting and smoking when we heard Terry’s voice rise. “Goddamn motherfuckers!”

The bartender leaned over the bar and in a cautioning tone said, “Hey, fellows, you better calm your buddy down or I’m calling the cops.”

I rose and strode back to the pool tables where Terry strutted around like a fighting cock, his hat pushed back on his head. “Hey, Terry, what’s going on?”

Three guys, gripping their pool cues like pikes, stood together on the opposite side of the table. The tallest one said in a Southern drawl, “Y’all’s friend there is crazy.”

“This motherfucker is from Alabama. I can’t stand anybody from Alabama,” Terry growled.

“Well, you need to calm down. The bartender’s fixing to call the cops on you. You want to spend the night in jail?”

He pointed his finger at the tall one who had spoken. “I ain’t afraid of you.”

The tall one said, “Can’t y’all get him outta here? We don’t want no trouble.”

I said, “Terry, we’re going. If you want to fight, you’re going to have to take on these guys by yourself. Let’s go.”

He slowly backed away and followed me out. The bartender nodded thanks to me as the door closed behind us. Dane and Doug were already standing outside as Terry stumbled out into the garishly lit street. Dane said, “I can’t believe you talked him into coming.”

“He likes me, remember.”

Doug said, “But he likes whisky more.”

And to emphasize the point, Terry loudly launched himself into a couple strolling down the street. His tirade was unintelligible, but the couple winced and detoured around him. We three others crossed the street as if we didn’t know him.

He yelled after us, “Come on! Stay out and party!”

We waved goodbye, ignored his pleas, and kept walking.

Before Dane, Doug and I retired, we had one more smoke on the balcony.

When I fell asleep, the other bed in the room remained empty.

But I was roused from that sleep by a bumping noise and woke to see Terry stumbling into the room. I sat up and realized that all Terry had on were his jeans. Cowboy hat, boots, belt, and shirt – all were gone.

I said, “What happened to you?”

He mumbled, “I met a hooker. She took everything.”

“Money, too?”

“What I’m wearing is all I got.”

“Well, try to get some sleep.” I glanced at the room clock, which indicated 4:02. “They’ll be waking us in an hour.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be ok.”

I turned over and did just that, but at five the phone rang and I staggered up to get it. A woman’s voice said, “Five o’clock wake up call.”

I hung up and looked around. Terry’s bed hadn’t been slept in but it was missing a pillow. I heard the shower running. As I walked toward the bathroom, I saw the broken shards of a water glass on the carpet next to Terry’s bed. I looked in the bathroom and there lay naked Terry asleep in the shower, curled in a fetal position, a water-soaked pillow cushioning his head, the falling water splashing on his body, his foot dribbling blood. “Jesus!” I said and walked over and turned off the shower.

I shook him awake. “Hey, Terry, get up. It’s time to go to breakfast. Can you make it?”

He slowly raised himself, hobbled to his bed and fell on it and began snoring.

After picking up the broken glass, I took a quick shower, dressed and went over to shake Terry awake again. He mumbled, “Go on down. I’ll be down soon.”

Then the phone rang again. This time the sergeant’s voice, with a hint of anger, said, “Who’s this?”

“Mike Stanover.”

“Well, mister, you’re in big trouble for calling in the middle of the night and cursing the operator.”

“Ah . . . that wasn’t me.”

“The call was from your room.”

“It was probably from my roommate. He came in late and drunk. I was asleep all night.”

“Oh, what’s his name?”

“Terry Hawkins.”

“Put him on the phone.”

“He’s passed out on his bed.”

“Ok, just leave him be and come on down.”

I left Terry be and met Dane and Doug in the hallway. We rode down together. The operator wasn’t on duty that early, and his red vest hung on a peg in the cab.

Dane asked, “Did Terry make it in?”

“About four this morning. Drunk as a skunk and wearing only his jeans. Some hooker took everything else he had.”

Doug said, “If I were in his shoes, I might’ve gotten drunk, too.”

The lobby was bustling with sleepy young recruits and draftees, so we went over to the steps of the restaurant, whose doors were locked, and sat there.

Twenty minutes later, we heard the elevator open and the patter of bare feet. Around the corner staggered Terry in his jeans and the red vest of the elevator operator. He saw us and ran in our direction, tried to leap a couch, caught his foot, and executed a pratfall onto the red carpet. The crowd hushed, but he staggered up and made it over to the steps and sat next to me, said “Morning’, guys,” fell backward and began snoring again. His nose was bleeding slightly.

Dane said, “He does like you.”

We three laughed.

When the doors behind us were unlocked and opened, we rose and went in to breakfast, leaving Terry be on the steps where he slept. Doug took a couple bites of egg and ate a biscuit, but this time Dane and I scooped his food onto our plates before the sergeant made his rounds.

However, the sergeant never made the rounds. He and a corporal were stopped by Terry’s body spread on the steps, lifted him up, dragged him into the restaurant, sat him in a chair at an empty table, brought over a pitcher of coffee and began forcing the hot liquid into him.

After breakfast we boarded the bus for the testing center. A lieutenant came aboard and took roll, calling out our names to which we each shouted “Here!’ or “Present!” He called, “Terry Hawkins!” No answer. “Terry Hawkins!” He scanned the faces of the seated youth. Dane, Doug and I all raised a finger and pointed back toward the restaurant where the sergeant was still pouring coffee into our “buddy.” The lieutenant said, “Oh” made a mark on his sheet, finished calling the roll, and told the driver. “Ok, that’s it. Take ‘em away.”

The testing took until early afternoon. First was a paper exam testing knowledge and aptitude to see if we had the mental where-with-all to become soldiers. We had finished that and were waiting for the physical testing when Terry showed up escorted by two MPs in white helmets. A marine sergeant came out and took him into a private room for testing. He hadn’t seen us sitting at the rear of the hall.

The physical tests were to determine if we were strong enough, and could see and hear well enough, and were coordinated enough to be a soldier. I passed everything and my card was stamped temporarily1-A.

Dane and Doug passed, too – all 1-A material for slaughter. Doug grumbled about body-mass ratios.

I saw only one happy face among us tested: an obese boy who both wept and laughed as he received his 4-F status. Many of the others gave him a thumbs up and a thin boyish voice yelled out of the crowd, “You lucky son-of-a-bitch!”

Then we were loaded back onto the bus, which was going to drop us at the Greyhound terminal. Outside, a line of straight-backed young men stood proudly waiting next to another bus that had “Marines” painted on its side. Then we saw barefoot, shirtless Terry escorted by the marine sergeant, who was giving him an earful about being a marine and how he, Terry, was heading to Camp LeJeune just as he was because they would make him into a marine or kill him trying. He left Terry, like some weird end punctuation, at the rear of the line of Marines.

Our driver got in, closed the doors and revved the engine of the bus. Terry looked over and saw me looking at him from the window of the bus. He grinned and waved. I saluted him and mouthed, “Good luck.”

Our bus pulled out and that’s the last I saw of Terry Hawkins. I knew he wouldn’t have it easy in the military service as diverse as it was. All of us had had our lives detoured by the war; for years none of us would be doing what we had planned for our lives. I have often wondered if Terry Hawkins made it through the war, or if I would find his name on the black wall in Washington, D.C., among all the peoples he hated.

END

Of all my high school buddies, only one went to Vietnam.  He had been a hellraiser in high school and joined the Green Berets.  He was wounded seven times and returned to combat after recovering each time.  After he returned home, he spent a year surfing up and down the coast and doing drugs.  After that year, he had a religious experience and became a Christian preacher.  I lost track of him at that time, but I hope he's had a good life.
 
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ENCOMIENDA


Chapter 14


Melvin Alcorn seemed pensive, focusing on his driving on the trip to AGG’s eastern camp. I thought that he seemed even younger than he did standing outside, and that the crisis he was about to be involved in would probably be the most crucial and transforming of his brief career. Confronting evil is always bracing. So I began our conversation lightly.

“How long have you been with AGG?”

“Almost three years.”

“Have you always worked in agriculture?”

“More or less. I grew up in a small town in Central Florida. My grandfather had orange groves for many years, so I grew up around farms. My father was an agricultural inspector for the state. However, my degree was in business administration. My first job was with a supermarket chain, but I quickly realized that I wanted to be closer to production than distribution. I wasn’t great with customers. So, I networked a little and found an internship at AGG. Last year, I was hired full salary. That’s when I came to Immokalee.”

“How’s the job going?”

“Not bad, but I have to tell you, I wasn’t really prepared for the squalor that some of the migrants live in. I interned at corporate headquarters in Kansas. This is my first real assignment, so I’m really still learning the ropes.”

“Do you get along with your boss?”

“Al Genepri? Sure. He’s a great guy, but very busy. I sometimes wish he had more time to instruct me. When he does, I always learn something valuable. In fact, he’s in a meeting in Kansas right now. That’s why I’m doing this. Which reminds me, what exactly is going on at the eastern camp?”

“You should be able to tell me that. For instance, what do you think of Joseph Beanland?”

He glanced at me and said, “Well, I can’t say we have a lot in common. In fact, I don’t care for him much at all. He’s crude, tells jokes I don’t appreciate. But his crew seems pretty efficient.”

“No complaints?”

“Well, there was one incident in November last year when a farm worker complained that Beanland was terrorizing him. Beanland came to the office and explained things to Al’s satisfaction. According to the office grapevine, the worker had been harassing some of the women in the camp and Beanland sat on him, literally.”

“Ouch. That’s quite a load.”

He laughed.

We were in the lead vehicle and he turned the caravan onto a gravel road heading roughly east, northeast. The road had been elevated above the swampland, so there were deep water-filled ditches on either side of the road. Beyond the ditches were sabal palms, palmetto brush, scotch pines and waterlogged land. The tires crunched over the gravel and threw up thin dust clouds.

A few miles down the road the truck eased up onto a ridge that flattened out for a hundred yards and extended northward for hundreds of yards and in the middle of the ridge was the camp, at which the road ended. The truck skidded to a halt, the dust settled and we stepped out.

A ten-foot-high chain-link fence ran from one ditch to the other. A gate was in the center of the fence. Centered on the gate were a green triangle and the white letters AGG. A wooden guardhouse sat just inside the gate. I thought, Arbeit Macht Frei.

A skinny, baseball-capped guard carrying a shotgun appeared from inside the guardhouse. He recognized the company truck and unlocked the gate. He said, “Howdy, Mr. Alcorn. Beanland told me he didn’t want anybody coming in and to stay out here. But I guess he didn’t mean you.” The guard was in his fifties, Caucasian, well-worn and nearly used up: missing teeth, unshaved, tufts of hair unruly from the rim of the baseball cap. And when he got close, his smell told a smoker’s unwashed tale.

Alcorn said, “How ya doin’?” However, I could tell that he didn’t remember the guard’s name. This verified Alcorn’s difficulty with customer relations. Front people had to remember customers’ names; they had to love people. It also verified that he hadn’t been to the camp in some time.

“Ok.” The guard nodded at the deputies and looked at me inquiringly.

“Lieutenant Suarez,” Suarez said and showed his badge.

“Hi, name’s Bob Cocker.”

“We’re looking for a couple missing boys. Seen any newly arrived young men around here.”

“Well, Lieutenant, migrants come and go. We get plenty of new ones all the time. I don’t know half the crew anymore. Everybody’s out working now.”

“So you can’t verify that they’re not here?”

“Can’t say ‘yes,’ can’t say ‘no.’”

“Who else is in camp?”

“Just me and an old feller that’s sick.”

I showed the guard the pictures of Nano and Paulie. Cocker looked at them, removed his cap and scratched his head. “All I can tell you is I don’t recognize ‘em. These fellers look a trifle highfalutin to be migrants.” He didn’t seem to be lying, but he also didn’t seem very bright and perceptive. He was just a worn-out old guy who had found a job that would carry him to the end of life. He didn’t know much and didn’t care to know much more. Just the kind of person Beanland could rely on.

Alcorn said, “We’re going to look around. You can stay at your post.”

Cocker looked relieved that his powers of conversation and knowledge would be stretched no further. He pulled a thin pack of Camel cigarettes and a match book from his shirt pocket, extracted one cigarette, flipped the matchbook open – all these practiced physical motions he did very well – struck the match and inhaled the first carcinogenic puffs with great pleasure. I envied his blissful ignorance a bit, but not enough to share his and Suarez’s habit.

Alcorn, the deputies and I turned to the camp. Near the gate was a doublewide mobile home and four smaller trailers around it and two sheds and a pen of some kind behind this cluster. Alcorn indicated that that was where Beanland, the camp cook, the custodian and the guards lived. A rusty, ancient Oldsmobile sat next to the trailer closest to the fence. Beyond was the main camp. It was laid out very precisely in rows of cabins centered on a central building. Eight rows of cabins twenty deep bracketed the central building. One hundred sixty cabins in all. The uniformly white cabins were prefabricated dwellings set up on cinder blocks and anchored to the ground by staked cables. Each had a door and steps in front and two screened windows, one at the back and one on one side. These were always open because the units had no air conditioning.

As we walked down the middle rows, I looked inside. Each cabin was about as large as my bedroom and had two metal bunk beds and four simple, plastic, straight-back chairs and one circular plastic table on a central pedestal. Other furnishings were varied depending on the residents. I did the math: 160 times 4 equals a designed capacity of 640 workers for the workforce. None of the cabins had plumbing.

Plumbing was in the central communal building, which was a concrete block rectangle with three areas: the west end was a kitchen and cafeteria; the central area was a community recreation area with a television, Ping-Pong tables and vinyl couches; the east end held toilets and urinals and showers and wash basins – a dozen of each. I did the math: the 640 residents would take about two hours to cycle through the restroom area at the end of the day if each one spent about ten minutes washing. I imagined that the line at the toilets could get pretty desperate after dinner. However, at the north end of the camp were a row of twelve port-a-johns, so that would relieve the pressure on the toilets.

We walked up and down each row of cabins until we came to one with coughing sounds inside. We peeked in and there was the “old feller,” probably the same age as Cocker. He was unconscious, coughing in a fitful, shivering, feverish sleep. We left him in peace and walked on.

The camp was very secure from both ingress and egress. North, east and west, the camp was surrounded by bogs and swampy land full of reptiles of various sorts. Not an area that any sane person outside of Survivor would want to pass through. South was the supervisor’s compound, fence and gate and guardhouse.

At the end of this trudge, Alcorn said, “I guess the guard is right. Nobody’s home. Are you guys satisfied?”

I said, “Let’s take a tour through the administrative area.”

Alcorn shrugged, “Whatever.”

The trailers surrounding Beanland’s doublewide were uniform, no doubt bought wholesale: one for the cook, one for the custodian and one each for the two guards.

As we approached, we heard the dogs for the first time and that explained the pen we had seen. They must’ve heard and smelled us approaching, so they started growling and barking and howling. None of our scents or voices were familiar to them. We went straight to the snarling, barking dogs: an assortment of six in a three-compartment pen: two Rottweilers in one, two Dobermans in another, one shepherd and a hound in the last. The fence was a ten-foot chain link just like the entry fence. The three doors to the pen were just large enough for a big man to enter. Behind the pen, a small airboat was tied to a tree.

The male Deputy Johnson whistled.

The female Deputy Johnson said, “These dogs are not pets.”

Suarez said, “Guard dogs.”

Alcorn said, “I think it’s Beanland’s hobby.”

I said, “Could we take a look inside the sheds?”

Alcorn hesitated. “Gee . . . I don’t know . . . I’d have to call . . .”

I said, “This is all AGG property, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, technically, but I’m not sure if the sheds are for our stuff or Beanland’s. I’d have to get an attorney’s approval.”

“Nevermind. Let’s go. I’ll ride back with Suarez.”

On the way out I spoke to Bob. “Say, what’re all those dogs for?”

He said, “Them’s Beanland’s.”

“Yeah, I figured that, but what does he use ‘em for.”

“Night patrol.”

“What’s night patrol?”

“You know, after lights out, he lets the dogs out.”

“When’s lights out?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“He lets them all out?”

“Naw. Two at a time. Fer a few hours each. That’s their run time.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Naw. He flashes the lights at the community center at ten. Then he walks to the pen and lets a pair out. Everybody knows to keep their doors closed after that.”

“Thanks. Have a nice day.”

End of Chapter 14
 
Arbeit Macht Frei is German and was the motto at the main gate into Auschwitz, where Eichmann ruled his slaves and victims; in English it reads "Work Shall Make You Free."
 
Neither Dobermans nor Rotweillers are inherently vicious animals.  They must be trained to be guard dogs or attack dogs.  However, they are quite territorial and will not allow strangers into the home area without the permission of the owners.  That they were originally German breeds and used to patrol concentration camps is meaningful.
 
John Steinbeck's masterpiece Grapes of Wrath concerns the migrant stream that left the Dust Bowl for California during the Great Depression.  It's a wonderful treatise on suffering and compassion and righteous anger.
 
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