Shakedown
By Tom Keating
I was stationed at Ft Benning, located outside the town of Columbus, Georgia, southwest of Atlanta in May 1969.The Fort was the home of the US Army Infantry School. I had just resigned from Infantry Officer Candidate School, and was waiting for adjudication and reassignment, most likely Vietnam. I had been in the Army eight months.
I was billeted in 1st Casual Company. a military unit for transient soldiers, or “casuals” waiting for either orders for overseas assignment (Vietnam) or a change of their status of some kind. The company barracks (old World War I buildings) was located near the airborne jump school towers, where troops shouted Geronimo! as they jumped from the practice platforms.
Each morning, around 6AM, we casuals huddled silently in the small parade area for roll call formation in the dark — two lines of men in green fatigues, baseball caps low on our heads, the darkness obscuring our faces, a cool breeze chilling the air slightly as we stood waiting for our names to be called for attendance, and for work detail assignments.
The work details we casuals did could be anything — post engineers (garbage men), unloading or loading trucks, or small construction jobs like fixing sandbags out on the firing ranges.
Even in transit, we were still in the army. Daily roll calls, formations and shakedown inspections were the usual reminders. Shakedowns were when the company officer and sergeant would surprise us with an inspection and literally shake down bunks, lockers and footlockers for contraband — drugs, weapons, whiskey, pornography and seditious material.
During my 2nd week at 1st Casual, I was caught in a shakedown when the officer and sergeant announced the surprise inspection. Everyone stood at attention next to their bunk as the officer walked down the rows of bunks, stopping randomly to inspect each soldier’s space.
He stopped at my bunk, opened my locker, but it was regulation — fatigues and boots. He pulled apart my neatly made bunk, but there was nothing there. Then he dumped my foot locker and all its contents on the floor, including three paperback books.
The Lieutenant picked them up. One was “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” film reviews by Pauline Kael, one of the top movie critics. The second was “The Kerner Report’s National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders” about the 1967 race riots. A Matt Helm spy novel was last. He read the title of the Kael book and went ballistic.
“Kiss-Kiss Bang-Bang! A skin book! This Private has pornography, Sergeant! Put him on report!” he said throwing the book down. The sergeant wrote down my name. I was standing at attention so I could not speak. Referring to the Kerner report he said, “He has a communist book here, too.” He threw it on the floor. He ignored Matt Helm.
“This is an article 15 violation, VY-OO-LAY-SHUN” He shouted at me. Have this private report to my office for an Article 15 hearing at 1700 hours! Police up those books.” He left, satisfied he found a criminal.
I was in trouble. Article 15 violations could lead to jail, confinement to barracks, demotion and pay garnishment. I was fucked.
The sergeant looked at me, smiled as he bent to pick up the books, and said, “You’re on Post Engineers every fuckin day until I say different.” The other guys in the barracks just shook their head at my bad luck.
That evening at precisely 1700 hours, I reported to the Lieutenant’s office. I walked in, saluted and came to attention. Across from me, behind his desk sat the lieutenant, the sergeant, and the battalion chaplain. The contraband books were on his desk.
“Private Keating reporting, as ordered, sir!”
“Keating,” he spoke after returning my salute, “We all have looked at your books, and this Kiss Kiss book, its movie reviews. So, we can’t charge you with pornography.” He picked up the Kerner report.
“This here report on the riots is a government published document, so we can’t charge you with sedition for having it,” He drawled. “The Chaplain has advised me that I can’t charge you, so all charges are dismissed. That is all.”
“Yes, sir!” I said, picking up the books. I saluted him, turned smartly and left.
The next morning at formation, I DID get assigned to Post Engineers. The worst part of the detail was cleaning out the big grease traps outside each of the post’s kitchens. The grease was bad enough, but the smell of old chicken, beef, eggs, and whatever else was in the trap was overpowering. And it was hot, crummy work. But I didn’t really mind. It was better than going to jail for reading Pauline Kael.