There was a young guy named Walter with a cowboy hat. He got drunk and drove and lost his license so he drove a farm tractor to the disco. Then he got drunk again and got pulled over on the farm tractor and the police would not let him drive the farm tractor to the disco either. Walter would milk the cows early on Friday and Saturday nights so as to get to the party sooner and, "meet girls." Some times he would walk in from the farm, some times he caught a ride. But, routinely by Nine-Thirty when all the girls came down the stairs, Walter was already drunk and passed out with head on bar and hat over head. I would try to wake him up from time to time and he would just glower up at me from under his hat and tell me to f___ myself. We all just smiled and shook our heads. In retrospect, Walter was a tragic dude - he filled my gas tank up a couple times just for a five mile ride home - he had to get home after after-bar time to milk the cows.
One night before the bar crew came in and the crowd was yet to flow down the stairs I was bar tending. A drunk guy who seemed like he might be an ex-jock was bothering the usual early girls at the end of the bar.
"You got to leave," I said to him.
"Ain't happ'n Skippy," he said as he slurred the words and spit on himself. His face was beet red.
"I can toss you out with one finger," I said and smiled as I reached for the phone to dial 911. It was a new thing in those days - that 911 business. No matter what the perps explanation would be to the cops, they always hauled off the patron rather than the staff. There would always be a new crop of suckers week after week that would have to call down to Chicago and get Daddy out of bed to post bail. It was a lucrative enterprise for the municipality.
"Nice try, chump," he said and slobbered at me as he reached over, knocked one of the bar girls drinks over, and then pulled the phone line out of the wall. He was taller than I thought and had a basketball player's reach. This was pre-cell phone culture remember. To my surprise, some bouncer staff had drifted in while the small drama was going on and were chatting with some of the girls. Unbeknown to me, they had one eye on their girls and one eye on the perp. With minimal to due, he was whisked up the back fire stairs upside down with arms flailing and head dragging one step at a time. In a few moments the fellas were back down and talking to their girls again.
One night I was working the door. The place was packed. The disco lights filtered through the thick cigarette smoke. The music shook the walls. Murry-of-'Nam the DJ was in his glory. A fight broke out in the middle of the crowd. I could see the whole thing from the steps. I could not get to the epicenter for all the dancing bodies. The crowd moved like the waves on an ocean. A guy named Jim who liked to help us in times of jams, ended up on the short end of the fight and under the pile. Jim had lost three fingers in an explosion on a Navy ship during 'Nam. Jim wore a big Turquoise necklace to cover where the medics had cut open his neck to make him breath. Anyway, Murry turned up the volume as the fight intensified - he gave me the thumbs up and a grin from his DJ command center - he bobbed his cowboy-hatted head to the music. As the crowd-control-bouncers cleared the fracas, there remained a pile of guys on the floor. Suddenly Jim's claw hand emerged from under the pile and clamped on one guy's neck. Jim was an expert by default on suffocation. The pile dispersed; the choked guy surrendered, gasping for breath, and was summarily drug up the stairs and tossed out side - the music played on - the dancers never missed a beat. Walter slept through it all.
This week's Wisconsin soldier to remember is Army Staff Sergeant Todd Cornell, age 38, who died Tuesday, November 9, 2004. The Iraqi unit he was serving with came under attack in Fallujah, Iraq. Sergeant Cornell was the 26th soldier from Wisconsin killed in action in Iraq. Cornell died while he was serving in an advisory role with the Iraqi unit. Cornell was assigned to the Detachment 9, 1st Battalion, 339th Infantry Regiment, Army Reserve, based in Michigan. The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel noted Todd is survived by his mom and dad Renee and Robert Cornell, a daughter, Catlin, 10, and a son, Jake, 8, and a brother and a sister. Staff Sergeant Cornell had been in the military 16 years. He arrived in Iraq in February of 2004. The Journal Sentinel went on to mention Todd Cornell joined the military after graduating from high school in Menomonee Falls. He lived in West Bend when home from duty.
3,809 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring 2003.
28,093 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring 2003.
79 Wisconsin soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring 2003.
115 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring 2003.
Soldier of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; and, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.
