SIX WEEKS a’ BUMMING

by Charles J. Sass

That title makes no sense. Neither did my homecoming in February of '46. The ship from Yokohama was a Liberty delight but our arrival in San Diego was less so. Millions of us were already on the march, hunting down jobs, living spaces, life mates, soul mates and education.  Thousands were coming ashore to flood the markets and distress the home front. At San Diego, arrogant German POW's gave us fantastic food and endless ice cream. The Government gave us options: "Be discharged here, or at a destination of your choice." "Where do you want to go, soldier?" San Diego beckoned but "there's no place like home," and it shouted "Come back – you are needed, loved and wanted – whoopee!"

They turned me loose in Fort Dix.

In no order of magnitude, this happened: (1) An Army "inspector" stole my souvenirs; (2) My angelic girlfriend was long departed, pregnant; (3) The money I'd been saving for something was diminished; (4) My sporty civilian clothes would not have fit anyway; (5) My treasures, stored with care were few, but mine – they were gone; (6) The home (and fabricated family) I'd left in '43 had split and scattered; (7) My high school friends were working, in college, lost, married or damaged; (8) My uncle, whom I loved stayed alive just to see me home – his funeral and his parting broke my last link to the past; (9) My attempt to reenlist was sidesplitting, "You had your chance, hero," the recruiter said, "now you ain't nothin' but leftovers"; (10) "You want what, go to school on the G.I. Bill? You're late, the guys from Europe beat you home by six months"; (11) At the VA, they told me everything would be all right if I was patient. They offered me counseling and a hospital bed. I wasn't sick, I was furious. "Fill out the form, with your phone number and address." I explained – no address, therefore, no phone – as behind me, more worthy guys urged me to hurry up – so I did.

Before I return to the seedy stuff, let me say that I've had a glorious time; far more than I expected or deserved. I worked at what I wanted and still do (for free). I have a magical wife, great kids and grandchildren of whom I'm shamefully proud. But this is about street people of which in 1946, I chose to be one.

Many of my short stories have street people in them. Homeless, unfortunates, victims, runaways, derelicts, parasites, hoboes and bums. They are clearly different breeds.  I write from experience, but I confess: with a few thousand bucks in the bank, no residual past and no attachments whatever, I could have chosen any course and direction. I could rent a room until something turned up; work on garbage trucks through a distant Mafia uncle; run a machine making good-for-nothing stuff – or be an encumbrance on the public and my fellow vets. I chose to live for an uncertain time "on the streets". It was amazingly easy and there were many of us "in transition." We were from everywhere and nowhere. A bereft look and a ragged Army shirt were good for a dollar a day. Aside from the cold, heat, occasional hunger and danger, it was a revelation we wouldn't trade for a million. Like the war.

After six weeks, I'd had enough, rented a daybed in a nice home, bought clothes, shed the O.D. fragments and signed up for the fifty-two-twenty club (remember it?). A part time drudge job paid me too much and offered nothing but respectability. Through the VA, a couple of aptitude and attitude tests suggested I had marketable potential. With almost no help from me and much indifference, the VA found a place at the school I wanted. I owe them still.

Enough self-approbation! I now have little regard for people who grub on others if they have resources to do otherwise. The power to cause guilt, shame or pity is a shady resource. A VA counselor advised, "Anything you can talk yourself into, you can talk yourself out of ..." It occurred in time that I was acting out a grudge against the world, family, Army, the church and the rest – and the grudge wasn't working. I quit the streets, but in my brief sojourn, I learned much – about people on the streets – who can't escape, are afraid to or don't want to. Too many of them, from then to now, are veterans. Many of us had a home in the service: brotherhood, safety, direction and security – and without that, we were aimless. Conversely, I have little feeling for those who use their service (real, creative or imagined) and their battle traumas (real, surreal and created) to rationalize living at the bottom level with able arms outstretched.

In my tour of the streets of Manhattan I lived among saviors, saints and sinners, barefaced and hollow, sensible and zany, the lost and found. What we had, we shared: food, an empty loft, warehouse or apartment, a subway niche, park bench, a bus terminal, information on possibilities and bed for a night. We also shared the park behind the New York central library.

It wasn't Park Place, but a place of peacefulness and camaraderie where we assembled to discuss, suggest, criticize and philosophize, anything – but not yet to do. When the weather and police allowed, it was the perfect place for so much intellect to shine, the center of world commerce, in the shadow of scholars and great books, among the trees. Newspapers were delivered daily by commuters. At the Park, we were mostly veterans, weighing time, passing through or waiting for Godot, the Postman or Iceman who Cometh – someone to awaken our senses and lead us out of ourselves.

We were class conscious. If you don't belong, you really don't belong. I belonged. The regular street folks, alkies and itinerants knew their place and gathered under the El on Lexington Avenue, near the missions on the Bowery, along the river docks and wherever else they might be endured. Their survival skills were admirable, not unlike our own.

Years later, from my mid-town office, when my work pressed too heavily, I'd run away for an hour or two. I'd buy sandwiches at the nearby deli and a couple of cups of coffee and return to the park. Business suit or otherwise, I was again one of them, free thinking, free standing, free loading, non-directional – and some old timers remained. So I shared a little of what I'd brought, napkins and all. I could have stayed, you know. I could have. I might have but for a little help from my friends.

About the author:  Charlie served in B-511th PIR from 1944-1946.  He was with lst Lt. John Ringler, when B-511th jumped into Los Baños Prison Camp on Feb. 23, 1945.  Curently he and his wife, Marion live in Nokomis, FL  He is one of our most gifted writers.

Courtesy of “WINDS ALOFT” Quarterly publication of the 511th PIR Association