Major Conflict Read online

  The three of us walked over and got between the Turks and the Rhino and stood there trying to look menacing. This didn’t have the deterrent effect we’d hoped for. The Turks just kept shouting what I figured were Turkish obscenities and trying to reach the Rhino. I was standing my ground and trying to convince the Rhino to back down when suddenly one of the Turks started waving his hands too close to my face. I have a rule—call it the doctrine of preemptive street fighting, if you like—if it feels as if I’m going to get hit, I always hit first. It was a lesson I learned early on in the school yards of St. Joan of Arc and Archbishop Malloy and on the streets of Jackson Heights. So I struck hard and fast and landed a nice haymaker in the center of the young Turk’s not-bad-looking face. He had a salad in his hands, I think, since after I hit him a cloud of lettuce let loose around him like so much confetti.

  Pandemonium broke out. The little battle surged backward toward the front door. And before we knew it the whole battle was down the steps and out on the street. A crowd quickly gathered to watch, occasionally cheering at a good shot delivered by one side or the other. Though we were outnumbered by two, we were much bigger and stronger, and soon the two smallest Turks seemed to disappear. The Rhino was truly amazing as he pounded away at anything that got in his way.

  After a few minutes of good toe-to-toe fighting with my guy—the one who’d originally waved his hands in front of my face, he pulled out a knife, lunged at me, and tried to stab me with it. Luckily, he overextended himself and lost his balance, which gave me the chance to knock the knife out of his hand. It went flying, I don’t know where, and just as he’d regained his balance and starting coming at me again, the Rhino, whose own Turk had had enough and run away, came charging at him. When the man saw the Rhino’s huge frame barreling down on him, he let out a cluck and sprinted off. Bariglia and Brooks had taken care of their guys, both of whom were gone, and so the four of us were left alone in the center of the crowd, bloodied and sweaty and breathing hard.

  “Thanks, Nocerous,” I said, patting Lostrapo on the back.

  “No problem, bud,” he said, a big grin on his face.

  Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression here. It wasn’t as if we were always getting into fights. This was a pretty rare occasion. In fact, I think it happened only one other time. In a way, I think it’s almost unavoidable. A group of big, young guys traveling around together will just naturally get into a brawl or two, even if they’re not looking for it. The truth is, we were a pretty mellow group of guys, though I have to say this brawl did enhance our reputation in the battalion as a being a tough group of hard-charging officers, which was, after all, not such a bad way to be perceived.

  All the way back to the hotel and then for the rest of the night, almost until dawn, we rehashed the fight, laughing, highlighting our heroics literally blow-by-blow, analyzing the cheers and boos of the crowd. The victory had bonded us together in a way we hadn’t been before. The night kept refueling itself on the periodic adrenaline rushes we’d get from recalling certain moves: a tough body blow, a swift duck away from a Turk’s fist, and my penultimate move when I knocked the knife from the good-looking Turk’s hand and it went flying and disappeared, and then the Rhino’s big charge right afterward.

  After this event I felt more comfortable with the idea of going into combat with these guys. It was gratifying to know that we’d stick together, that we could count on one another when the going got tough, and that no one would leave anyone else behind. I would have done anything for those guys, and I was happy to show it. Granted, it was only a (some might say childish) street brawl, but in our line of work you could never know when you might be called upon to make a sacrifice for another soldier.

  But the incident raised a question for me, one that became ever more persistent as the years passed and I became less willing to keep my sexual orientation hidden. Where was the breakdown of social cohesion that was supposed to take place when a gay man was in a unit? Hadn’t I played a valuable role in all of this? I was a highly skilled, well-trained, highly disciplined, well-liked, loyal, responsible soldier in the U.S. Army, one who would be a threat to any foreign enemy. How was I a threat to my unit? How was I a threat to the very institution I’d devoted my whole life to preserving and protecting? What threat did I, 2LT Jeffrey McGowan, pose to the integrity of the U.S. military? I wouldn’t be able to fully answer that question until the very end, until after I’d served in more than a just street brawl in Amsterdam, until I’d actually served in combat, in the Gulf War, and I’d reached my decision to end my career. And the answer was, of course, none. I posed no threat. And the gay men and women fighting and dying in Iraq today pose no threat as well, except of course to the enemies they’ve sworn to vanquish.

  Some nights I’d go exploring on my own. I’d take the train into Frankfurt and go to a jazz club in Alt-Sachsenhausen or just walk around and check out the city. I never went to gay bars since it would’ve been too risky. But the bars in Europe aren’t quite as segregated as those here in the States, so it’s not unusual to find gay men in what we might normally think of as a straight bar. Occasionally I’d hook up with one of these guys, though I never planned to; it often just fell in my lap, so to speak. I guess the thought of hooking up was usually in the back of my mind when I decided to go out alone, without my buddies from the post, but I never really admitted it to myself.

  These nights were infrequent. Most of the time I truly enjoyed the company of the guys from the post; we’d bonded in a real way, and the truth is I kind of had to do it on the sly since they would’ve thought it strange that I was going into the city alone.

  And so it was that I was bound for Frankfurt one summer night during my second year in Germany. I was tired, badly in need of some real R & R, having spent nearly two months in Grafenwohr and Hohenfels, but the last thing I wanted was to hang out back at the post and watch TV, which is what all my friends were doing.

  Outside the Hauptbahnhof, I decided to walk for a little bit, get some air. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take a cab to Alt-Sachsenhausen or just hang around in the city center. After walking a few blocks I came across a cool-looking bar. I realized I had to piss, so I figured I’d go in and check the place out.

  It was smoky and dark inside. I quickly went to the bathroom and washed my hands, checking out my face in the smoky mirror above the sink. When I walked out of the bathroom, I noticed a guy sitting at the bar, drinking what looked like a Weizen beer, judging by the dark color and thick foam head. Like nearly everyone else in the little bar, he was smoking a cigarette and staring off into space. A little cloud of smoke plumed above his head and then disappeared into the breeze caused by the ceiling fan revolving wearily overheard. Well, I thought, maybe I’ll have a Weizen beer myself. I’ll have a Weizen beer or two and then catch a cab to Alt-Sachsenhausen. As I began walking toward the bar he turned and looked at me, stopping the hand holding the cigarette midway to his mouth. Our eyes locked, and he raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in acknowledgment. When he didn’t look away, I felt emboldened and made my way directly toward the bar stool next to his.

  He looked to be roughly my age, somewhere in his mid-twenties, and he was good-looking and slender. He had reddish-brown hair, straight and long (over his ears), which he parted neatly on the right side. He wore a shiny, dark blue shirt with the collar open, under a gray pinstripe jacket. He gave the impression of the kind of casual elegance only the very rich can pull off.

  As I sat down and ordered a drink, I realized, now that he’d stopped looking at me and turned away, that I had no idea how to start up a conversation, let alone a conversation in a language I could barely understand. I tended to forget about this until I found myself already deep into a situation. The bartender set down my beer in front of me, and I paid him; then, seeing in my peripheral vision, the redhead tap out a fresh cigarette from his pack, I suddenly regretted having ordered the beer. I regretted having stopped in this bar. I regretted having come
to Frankfurt. I regretted not having stayed back at the post to watch Cheers and L.A. Law with my friends. I took a deep, weary swing of the beer. One beer, I told myself. One beer and then I’d move on, catch the cab to Alt-Sachsenhausen, or maybe just take the train back to the post.

  But then suddenly I heard German being spoken at me, and I turned to face the redhead next to me. Our eyes locked again, and I told him in German that I didn’t speak the language very well. Before I’d even finished my sentence he switched to English.

  “Your first time?” he said, lighting his cigarette with a silver butane lighter that flamed higher than necessary. “Here at this bar, I mean. You’re an American, no?”

  “Yes,” I said, “first time, and I am; I am American. A New Yorker.”

  “Ah . . .” he said, looking pleased, “Are you a soldier?” he asked, clicking the lid of the lighter shut.

  “No, no, I’m here visiting friends.”

  “I see. Do they live in the city?”

  “No, Giessen, they live in Giessen,” I said. And then, hoping to change the subject, “Can I bum a cigarette?”

  I didn’t want to say I was a soldier because I didn’t want to deal with the whole American military question, since young Germans tended to resent our presence. Mostly though, I knew, now that I was on the other side of my denial, so to speak, that my main reason for coming to Frankfurt was to stop being a soldier for a night in order to simply be a man.

  “Sure,” he said, lifting the pack and tapping the bottom so that one cigarette pushed up higher than the others.

  “I don’t usually smoke. Only in bars when I’m drinking,” I said. I put the cigarette to my lips, and he lit it for me. “Thanks,” I said. I took a deep drag.

  “I know it well—Giessen, I mean. I have an aunt who lives near the center of the town. I visit her fairly frequently. So how long are you here for?”

  “Another two weeks or so.” The nicotine hit, and I got a little dizzy.

  “Or so?”

  “Well, I’m not sure when I’m leaving.” That didn’t make much sense, I knew. God, how I hated all this lying. Everything would just snowball and snowball until I didn’t know what I was talking about anymore. Sometimes I felt like one big walking lie. I lied to my friends on the post about these nights in Frankfurt, about the fictitious girlfriend stateside; and I lied to the men I met occasionally here in the city. I was lying now to this man I’d just met in the cool little bar not far from the Hauptbahnhof. It seemed that there was no place where I was allowed to be fully myself.

  “Well, I hope you enjoy your visit. Any special plans for tonight?” He leaned forward slightly and stared directly into my face.

  I smiled. I liked this guy. “Well, I thought I would just explore the city a little and see what happens.”

  “An explorer!” he said, laughing a little. “That’s exciting!”

  And then we lifted our pints of Weizen beer and clinked them together.

  “To exploration,” he said.

  “To exploration,” I said, and we both drank.

  I introduced myself after that, giving him, for some strange reason, my real first name. I usually told guys my name was Jack. His name was Gustav, and we spent the next few hours at the bar together, drinking, sharing his cigarettes, and talking. Toward midnight he told me he was glad I wasn’t a soldier. He’d been seeing an American sergeant, and it had been difficult. He said he was swearing off army guys. And then I told him that I had been a soldier but that I’d finished my obligation about a year before. Though this was still a lie, it felt good to say it. Something about Gustav made me want to get closer to the truth. He put on a mock-weary face when I told him and then laughed, and said, “Once a soldier, always a soldier, I’ve heard. But maybe I can make an exception for you. You want to come back to my place for a nightcap?”

  I said I did, and before I knew it we were back in his apartment having passionate sex.

  In the morning Gustav made coffee, and at one point I felt so at ease that I almost told him the whole truth about my life. But something held me back, though I promised myself that when I saw him again I’d tell him everything.

  Walking back to the train station, I pulled out the card he’d given me and looked at it. The few times I’d done this before I had tossed the card or the matchbook cover or slip of paper with the phone number; I had gotten rid of it even before reaching the station, convinced that it would be used as some kind of evidence, that it would bring about my downfall. This time felt different, and I decided to hold on to Gustav’s card, stuffing it back into my pocket. But by the time I reached the station all the old concerns had returned; it was as if I’d crossed back over to the other side, so when I entered the Hauptbahnhof, I pulled out the card and tossed it into the first litter box I came upon. I never saw Gustav again.

  On the train ride back to the post I started replaying the night with Gustav in my head. On the one hand, I felt guilty and told myself, as I did every time it happened, that I’d never do it again. On the other hand, I felt good about the night and frustrated that I’d not be able to see Gustav again. It occurred to me that I’d learned to approach every relationship with a man like a raid: identify the target, attack, and then get out as quickly as possible so as not to be caught. I grew anxious thinking how I’d entertained the idea of letting Gustav know the truth; I knew that letting anyone too far into my life would involve taking a huge risk, one that I wasn’t yet prepared to make. And so I pushed Gustav out of my mind and put my “straight” hat back on, managing once again to stuff the weary genie back deep inside the bottle.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Second Spotlight

  Early in June of 1990, a few months before I got my first big promotion, I was selected to be a fire direction officer for one of the gun batteries. I was still a second lieutenant, but the move was a big deal because I would be one of fourteen officers competing for a single slot. I saw it as a vote of confidence. I also knew that it meant I’d probably be selected for a platoon leader position in a year or so if I kept my nose clean.

  That I was moving ahead in my career, that the army seemed to be placing its mark of approval on my forehead with increasing regularity, served only to exacerbate the conflict in myself over my sexuality. I’d proven them wrong and in the process proved to myself that a gay man could be a valuable asset in the armed forces. For so long I’d believed that these two things were mutually exclusive. And they seemed to remain that way as long as I insisted on trying to squeeze my gay self into a straight mold in order to fit my preconceived notions of what it was to be a soldier. Once it became clear that I was succeeding despite failing to straitjacket my sexuality, it became clear to me that they weren’t, in fact, mutually exclusive at all. Phrases like “fine gay soldier” and “outstanding gay officer,” and “excellent gay major” no longer seemed oxymoronic. They were becoming phrases that might, in fact, apply to me.

  But this all came slowly. And I knew that my own private enlightenment, while it might make my life a little more bearable, wouldn’t change anything in the U.S. Army. And I also knew that, as things stood, I simply wasn’t going to be able to have everything I wanted. Unlike my straight comrades, I’d have to choose between my work life and my private life. And this realization often left me feeling lonely and empty. In quiet moments, when I was unable to focus on anything else, I’d often experience a yearning that was so palpable, so real, it hurt. I wanted to open myself up to someone else and let down my defenses; I wanted to be vulnerable, to be loved and to love, intimately. But no matter how obvious it became, no matter how much I knew deep in my heart that I wasn’t straight, a part of me still believed that I could simply overcome it by focusing on other things or by simply ignoring it. I’d manage for a few weeks, but the quiet moment would always, always return, that whisper of accusation, Greg’s calling me a hypocrite, and there it would be, staring back at me, plain as day. I’d rush to compartmentalize. And I became expert at compar
tmentalizing nearly every single aspect of my life, each separate part sealed tight in its own little box. If I wanted to have sex, I’d opt for an impersonal encounter, which at the time was an act of world-class stupidity, considering that the AIDS epidemic was in full swing and we were still years away from the big drugs that would change the face of the disease in the mid-to-late nineties. An impersonal encounter was preferable to the Gustav-like encounter, though, which had scared me: the box was too big, too loosely sealed; I feared if I had another encounter like I’d had with Gustav, I’d lose not just the battle, but the war itself. I was just about to learn how easily all the compartments could break apart and get blended together.

  To celebrate my selection as a fire direction officer, a bunch of us decided to go to Alt-Sachsanhausen. Our favorite place was Kyalami’s, a South African bar located catty-corner to the Irish pub that drew a young, upscale mix of Americans and Europeans. We went to the Irish pub, too, sometimes, but that was just about pounding beers, and it was always pretty loud and raucous. Kyalami’s was more subdued; you could actually hear what the person next to you was saying. The decor was cool: zebra skins and Zulu regalia. And there were little private nooks set apart from the main room that made things more intimate and allowed for good conversation.

  That night we drank quite a bit and talked shop endlessly, as we always did. I remember thinking early on, We had this exact conversation three weeks ago. We were all dressed the same, in jeans and polo shirts, with the same clean buzz cuts, and Bariglia was complaining about the same guy he was always complaining about; it felt as if we existed in some perfectly sealed bubble in which our work lives and social lives were so seamlessly connected that sometimes I really just wanted to scream, crash straight through, and get the hell away from these guys and army life in general.

  And the truth was we were, in a very real sense, in that perfectly sealed bubble. The army at that point, American military culture in general, was the only place left where LBJ’s Great Society had been allowed to flourish fully and take hold. The army provided everything, literally everything—housing, food, clothing, health care, entertainment, recreation—all the basic human needs and more. It acted as a massive safety net for those who were a part of it. But it often felt less like a net stretched out beneath you and more like a net strung up all around you, like a cage, restricting your every move.