Jack
After 40 odd years I found his phone number and called him.
A young girl’s voice said hello. I said, “I am looking for Jack. Is he there? This is Vinny Ruocco. Is Jack home?”
I sensed hesitation and then I heard the girl say in a muffled voice, “Mom, someone is looking for Daddy.”
I then heard an older voice say, “Who’s this?” I replied, “Vinny Ruocco.”
She then asked, “Vinny from Alabama.” I said, “From Kansas.”
Then she said, “Oh Vinny. Jack passed some weeks ago.”
How? I asked. “Cancer,” she replied.
I could not or did not want to believe it. All my expectations were instantly gone. Jack’s wife went on to say that Jack spoke of me often. That comment softened the blow, but did not make the ache go away. I told her how sorry I was. The phone call lasted only minutes.
Neighbors
The Army, in its wisdom, decided to station me in a tank outfit in Ft. Riley, Kansas. While I had no choice but to make the best out of it, I was not exactly happy to be there. Nothing about the place either on or off the post felt familiar. In fact, though everyone spoke English, it felt like I was in a foreign country.
The barracks, as I recall, was a two or three story brick oblong building. My bunk was among dozens of others in a row. There were three rows. And, everything — walls, floors, everything — was painted in various shades of green or gray except the white sheets and the pillow cases. The blankets were likely made of wool and on bare skin felt like sand. They made me itch.
I was in headquarters company. The line companies were on the other floors. For a while my acquaintances were in the same situation as me, headquarters. We were clerks, drivers or radio operators and generally bored all the time. As they say — we were just marking time.
I am not sure how we connected. Jack DiPiazza lived on another floor. I think he was placed in one of the line companies — a tanker.
What comes to mind is the operation called Reforger, when large components of the division were sent to Germany. I believe it was in January 1969.
On that operation I found myself seated on a C141 with dozens of other guys. We were all on jump seats — long rows of seats made of what looked like wide red netting one might find on beach chairs. The rows extended from the front to the back of the plane.
The guys on the plane came from more than headquarters. I’m sure they were tankers.
Being in January we were in winter fatigues, cold weather gear along with backpacks, helmets and we carried our rifles unloaded, of course.
I recall the plane had one window and one bathroom which took some effort to reach. So, if you had to go, you’d essentially have to climb over everyone going and coming.
It so happened that Frankfurt was snowed in so we touched down in an air force base in The Azores. I think the layover was at least two days. They put us up in airmen’s barracks. I think there were six of us in one room. Compared to the spartan army barracks, the place was dressed up with curtains and bedspreads. I was impressed.
I don’t think I knew the other guys in the room, but I knew they were not from headquarters. They were tankers and they were all draftees. I was RA — regular army, meaning I had enlisted voluntarily. I was sure that I was the youngest, now 18.
I’m pretty sure that is where I met Jack and discovered that we were practically neighbors — Jack, from Brooklyn and me, from New Haven. We were two Italian-Americans from the Northeast meeting for the first time on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. However, the friendship didn’t happen in The Azores. Rather it seemed to develop after we returned to Ft. Riley.
Finding an alternative to boredom
Back on post, I got to know some of the draftees that I had met while on Reforger. They all seemed to have a different attitude than those of us in headquarters — more noncompliant, more fun loving and more anti-army. They had no hesitation bending or even breaking the rules as long as they did not get caught.
In the garrison everyone wore a hat. An olive drab baseball cap. It was just part of the mandatory uniform. However, being in headquarters company I was generally required to spend time in a building with the brass, and that required me to remove my cap to comply with protocol. Accordingly, I had to maintain a military haircut.
This was 1969 and short hair was not in style. So my military haircut was just another reason to dislike the rules. But I had to comply — or else.
Jack, on the other hand, spent most of his time outdoors in the motorpool. He seldom had to remove his cap. Accordingly, his haircut was as unmilitary as it could be without getting in trouble. Somehow he managed to stuff his long hair under his cap and no one would know the difference.
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During reveille I’d see him in formation with me and the other troops, seemingly military-like until he walked back in the barracks, took off his hat and all his hair would fall out. Very funny in one respect and annoying in another.
Jack was perhaps three or four years my senior. In a way, to me, he was a big brother. I wonder if he ever thought of me as his kid brother. While he and I would party with the draftees, Jack at some point felt that they were a bit extreme in their anti-military ways. I agreed. Plus, none of the draftees were Italian and most came from the West coast, not the East. So, Jack and I seemed to drift in another direction. As a result I got to know Jack pretty well.
They say that everything is relative but, compared to the others, the fun Jack and I had was wholesome. I’m stretching that a bit. We did some crazy things but not that crazy. Let’s just say it involved the unauthorized use of military property.
Style
Jack DiPiazza was a blend of personalities. I had never known one who was more of a mix.
How do you describe a person who, out of uniform, never wore shoes, only flip-flops, polished his fingernails, owned seemingly countless knit shirts, and had a heavy New York accent with a speech impediment — yet whose greatest aspiration was to work as a baggage handler at JFK?
I have fond memories of him walking onto my floor in the barracks and calling me to get ready for tonight. He would not walk up to my bunk but yell for me at the door. “Waho, let’s go” Back home my last name was pronounced Rocko. But with his speech impediment it was Waho. It worked for Jack and it worked for me. I’ll never forget it.
Going out for the night generally involved stopping at the store to pick up a cheap bottle of wine — Bali Hai as I recall. We’d smoke a joint, drink the wine, buy some munchies and laugh a lot — at almost anything. Pot had a way of nullifying things that needed nullifying. After a joint mundane everyday things could become funny. Even the laughter itself became funny. It was contagious.
Jack had his own car — a Pontiac Bonneville. I think it was a ’65 model. It was light blue with a vinyl top. He kept it clean inside and out. It fit perfectly with his knit shirts, flip-flops and polished fingernails. I didn’t know it then but Jack seemed to have been sketched in Martin Scorsese’s 1990 film Goodfellas. I wonder how long he kept that car?
Sunday mornings were a treat that has stayed with me to this day. Jack found a diner on the other end of Junction City — the nice end. There he introduced me to a tossed salad, thousand island dressing, crackers and steak & eggs. We’d sit in a booth, eat and watch the locals come and go. My family generally ate our meals at home. If we went out, it was always to an Italian restaurant. I had never been to a diner until I went with Jack. Today I’ll look for a cracker or two when eating a salad with thousand island dressing. I just like the memory. Had he lived I would have enjoyed reliving another Sunday morning meal with him.
To keep up with Jack’s nightly escape from army life, I had to change my clock. My routine would start after 8:00 PM, stay out all night bar hopping, chasing the ladies and then make it back before reveille. In other words I did not sleep at night. The only time I could rest was during the day. I became nocturnal.
The army had a system, and if you understood the system and worked within it, you could ghost through time and still stay out of trouble. Generally speaking you only had to be present and accounted for first thing in the morning and at the end of the work day around 5 PM. Unless you got stuck on some special duty, they didn’t care where you were. Sometimes I’d sleep in the motorpool and other times I’d sleep in the bedroom of an understanding buck sergeant.
I assume Jack had a similar routine. He must have because he seemed to have more energy than me. I never saw him slow down.
The Void
As time went on I began to watch people come and go. But, I stayed. The draftees all had two year hitches while I had three. When it was Jack’s turn to leave all I remember was the void. I don’t remember the day he left or even what was said. He just was no more.
I developed other acquaintances — some friends and others not so much. They were from various parts of the country. I remember Hatch from a little Kansas town and thought he was lucky to be able to go home for the weekends. There was a Chicano whose accent was fun to listen to. I also remember Scott from San Bernardino who drove a green VW. There was only one other Italian from Lawrence Massachusetts, who I learned was a junkie. And finally Chip from Burbank. He drove a 1958 Corvette, a real beauty before it was rear ended by a drunk NCO. I watched them all leave while I had to stay.
Occasionally I thought of Jack, not often and not wishing he was with me. I remember wondering whether he got that job at JFK — for me it was just a passing curiosity.
And, finally my day came. It was my turn to leave Ft. Riley for good. For some reason, which I can’t remember, I wore my dress greens. When I got my discharge papers that morning I ripped open my jacket causing all the buttons to fly off and land on the shiny barracks floor. Perhaps it was my last opportunity to express my hatred for the place.
The trip back home to New Haven is only a blur. However, I remember placing myself on an extended vacation for weeks. I did absolutely nothing. Then one day my mother suggested that I get a job, go back to school, or both. I guess she got sick of me just hanging around being lazy.
I tried to get a job selling real estate, however a wise prospective employer refused and instead suggested that I go to college. I took his advice.
I took advantage of the GI Bill and worked my way through the four years. Hard fought success came later. Years before while standing in formation a captain told me that I would amount to nothing. He was wrong.
When the internet arrived, I learned you can find people online. That’s when the thought of tracking down Jack occurred to me.
I started to have visions — if I find him, I’ll give him a call. We could make arrangements to meet at Grand Central, get a bite to eat and reminisce. In my mind I could actually see him from afar in the station. We’d smile, walk towards each other, shake hands and likely look at each other in joyful amazement. These were happy visions of an anticipated happy day.
That day was not to be.
After Jack’s wife told me he had passed I was surprised how hard it hit me. It was not the first time that I had lost people that I had known, so I was surprised at the level of my grief. It was more than that — I was actually angry at the lack of empathy I felt from others. When I told others about the phone call with his wife, they brushed it off as if it meant nothing. How could they not understand?
Jack however, though gone, wants to linger. He wants me to remember his flip-flops, polished fingernails, knit shirts, New York accent, and his speech impediment. May I never forget my buddy, Jack DiPiazza.
Waho, let’s go.
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