Connecticut: Part Four

For the entire story, click the Connecticut topic at the end of this post, in the sidebar to your right, or just click here.

I've been in plenty of fights.  I've been in bar fights, playground fights, sporting event fights, and whatnot.  I've been in fights at work and even a fight right in front of the building in which I live.  Never in my life have the consequences for a fight been as severe as for punching Connecticut in the face.

Two MPs showed up within minutes and had me face down on the floor, cuffing me behind my back.  They marched me out to their jeep in a freezing snowstorm, me dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and hauled me to jail where I was thrown into a holding cell to await morning.  It only had a metal bench and a toilet and I wasn't allowed to fall asleep.  Every time I started to nod off, one of the guards would take a baton and rattle it on the bars nearest my head.  This went on for six hours until the duty sergeant arrived to give me a boot-camp style yelling.  At attention, face forward, in my shorts and t-shirt, I listened to him scream at me until he got hoarse and had to take a break.  I stayed at attention for an hour or more until he returned from his break and went at it again. 

Not only had I assaulted someone who outranked me, but I'd done it without giving him the chance to defend himself.  At least that's the story that was yelled into my face, complete with spittle and a good deal of halitosis.  Finally he led me to a different cell, deeper in the jail complex.  This one had a real bunk with a sheetless mattress.  I thought I might get some rest, but that pleasure wasn't going to be mine for some time. 

I was told to get dressed in my service blue uniform.  Right next to the bunk was a duffle bag with all my gear in it.  Someone had retrieved my uniforms and shower kit from the room while I was being annoyed by the guards. Of course, they'd stuffed everything into the bag and it was all a wrinkled mess and I understood the trap set for me but could do nothing about it.  I dressed in wrinkled trousers, blue belt with tarnished buckle, wrinkled button-up shirt and wrinkled tie, scuffed shoes and a bent hat.  This wasn't going to be fun.

Before I was finished tying the tie the duty sergeant screamed, “Attention!” down the cell row and I stood there hands at my side, face forward, listening to the sounds of hard soles clicking toward me.  I didn't look to the side, I waited until my first sergeant was standing right in front of my face before I knew who it was going to be. 

“You dumb fucker,” he began.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Sir, this dumb fucker doesn't have a clue.”  Alright, that's not what I really said, but it's what I wish I had said.  What I did say was, “First Sergeant, I apologize, First Sergeant.”  I said that a dozen times as he criticized my wrinkled and disheveled appearance and the actions that led me to bloodying the nose of his favorite orderly in the whole world. Connecticut was the best paper pusher he'd ever had the pleasure of serving with. 

It didn't get easier when the Commander showed up.  First Sergeant snapped to attention and I knew that I was going to hear some things I really didn't want to hear. 

The Commander had my cell door opened and he walked in and strode around me twice.  “You little shit. What kind of disrespectful son of a bitch doesn't even finish dressing before his commander comes to visit?” 

“Sir, I apologize, sir.” 

“You have brought disgrace on yourself and your fellow airmen.  You have caused men to work extra duty to cover your shift because you decided to assault my orderly.”

“Sir, I apologize, sir.” 

“You did hear me correctly, Airman. You assaulted My orderly.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Your Article Fifteen hearing will be tomorrow morning at 0600 hours, Airman.  Until then you will stay here and you will fix your uniform so that it is presentable for your hearing.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Unless you'd like to refuse your hearing.  You have that right and we'll dispense with the formalities and go right to a Court Martial.”

“Sir, no, sir.” 

“Very well.  You'll be marched to my conference room tomorrow.  Look sharp.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

In my cell for the rest of the day I had to de-wrinkle my clothes, polish my shoes and belt buckle and straighten my hat.  I had to do this all without an iron and without a shoe-shine kit.  All I had was my clothes and my shower kit – shaving cream, soap, toothbrush, etc.  I used water from the small sink in tiny doses and then rubbed the shirt and trousers along the edge of the bunk to get the wrinkles out.  I then hung them carefully on the bars.  I flattened the hat under the mattress.  I shined the shoes with water and a couple of q-tips, spreading the existing polish out as thinly as I could.  I used a clean t-shirt to polish my brass.  It took a long time, but I couldn't risk having anything else for them to get me on during my hearing.

The next morning I was at attention in front of the commander, a captain from the advocate's office, my supervisor and the First Sergeant.  It was all a formality because they'd already decided my punishment – temporary decrease in pay grade for six months, thirty days in Correctional Custody, and a fine of five hundred dollars. 

As I left, I noticed Connecticut's face didn't even look bruised. He smirked at me from behind his desk.  He was sitting on one of those little armless chairs secretaries use. If I hadn't been escorted, and cuffed, I would've really finished what I'd started. 

Correctional Custody is better known as CC, or See-See, and even more commonly referred to as the Country Club.  It's an ironic title. 

I retrieved my belongings from my cell and the MPs drove me to CC, which is a barracks on the other side of the base.  They pulled up out front and pushed me out of the jeep, uncuffed me, and drove away.  There I was standing on a sidewalk in front of this ominously dark and seemingly deserted barracks.  I walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer marked “Press Here.”

“What?”

“Reporting for Correctional Custody,” I announced. 

“Do you smoke, Airman?”

“No, sir.”

“I'm not a goddamned sir.  I work for a fucking living.  Do you want to piss me off, Airman?”

Since I was talking to a small speaker mesh on the side of a wall, I didn't have a clue to whom I was talking and even so, I certainly didn't want to piss anyone off. “No, sergeant?”

“That's better.  It's too bad you don't smoke, Airman.  It's a filthy habit.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” I said confidently.

“Are you calling me filthy, Airman? I'm a smoker, but I assure you I'm not filthy.”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Do you see that butt can behind you, Airman?”

I looked and I did.  “Yes, Sergeant.”

“How many butts are in that can?”

“I don't know, Sergeant.”

“Well fucking count them, Airman.” This was my introduction to CC.  I was on the sidewalk in the winter counting cigarette butts from a butt can in front of the building. 

When I finished, I pressed the buzzer again and announced, “There are one hundred forty-two, Sergeant.”

“What brands?”

“Excuse me, Sergeant.”

“I want to know what brands of cigarette there are in that can, Airman.”

Back to counting, and this time sorting.  I pushed the buzzer, “There are Marlboro, Marlboro Lights, Kools, Camels, Newports, and two generic butts without label, Sergeant.”

“How many of each?”

I was prepared for this because of the last question, and I told me the count for each of the brands. 

“Well clean up that filthy fucking mess, Airman and get your ass in here to get a bunk assignment.” 

My thirty days of CC went something like this:  I'd wake up at 0500, dress and report to the sergeant, who'd release me to go to my squadron.  I worked in my squadron buildings doing janitorial tasks as needed, but also they pulled me off that a lot to do my regular job because they were hurting for people anyway.  Then, after work I'd walk back to CC and report to the sergeant who'd have a duty list of cleaning, painting, shoveling, and whatnot that I'd have to do up until right before lights out. 

At the end of my CC time I got a blue envelope.  Blue envelopes only came from the hospital or medical command.  Opening it I found my first appointment slip to see the psychologist.  Reading farther, the explanation became clear.  If you work around nuclear weapons – and I did – and have a punishable offense that involves violence – again, that's me – then you have a mandatory evaluation and psychological counseling order. 

Great.  Now I had to see the shrink. 

But there was some good news . . . my orders back to the dorm included a room reassignment. 

Pete met me at the door, laughing about Connecticut.  For his own safety, he'd requested to be assigned to a dorm room in a different squadron's barracks. 

Next Connecticut episode:  Seeing the Shrink and Lynda calls me. 

Comments

[mark]

you see, it IS all who you know and who you blow...

[Cherise]

Doesn't rehashing all these Conneticut memories make you wanna find the prick and kick his ass?

[a rose is a rose]

is he back in connecticut? cause if he is, i can find him and 'handle' him for ya. the sad truth is he probably handled himself - or am i getting ahead of the story? i am guessing you may know exactly what became of him.

it's a shame when someone is a rat (no offense to rats). there certainly are circumstances where you DO have to 'tell' but this was NOT one of them.

connecticut should have taken his vagina outta his momma's handbag

[Success Warrior]

Doesn't the Air Force have any competant shrinks?

[Sideon]

I would never have been able to handle the military and follow orders. You handled this much better than I ever could have dreamed. I can do passive-aggressive as well as any good little Mormon, but in Connecticut's case, I wouldn't have stopped with smashing his face. Granted, it's doubtful they (the U.S.) would have allowed me into the armed forces in the first place.

Tangentially, Jon Stewart cracked some joke about gays in the military and why it scared the Jeebus out of the right wing conservatives. A thousand gay men with M-16's sayin' "who'd you call 'faggot'?"

Totally engrossing story, CV Rick.

[SML]

Rose, I hope you're not dogging vaginas or momma's handbags. I've got both, but wouldn't want to compare either with a weasel like Connecticut!

Wow, that time in CC sounds like a horrid experience.

[a rose is a rose]

naw sml, i too have both!

[Tim Mulcahy]

Gotta love the system. Did you ever get to tell your side of the story?

[CV Rick]

Tim, I kind of got to tell my side. But the fact that I hit him and he never defended himself and never hit me made all the difference. It was assault according to the UCMJ, regardless of the circumstances.