There were two things going on at the same time in our version of infantry training. Could be we weren't unusual in that regard. There was the level you could see, learning weaponry and walkin' a lot of miles, and on the other side, the things you couldn't. Mostly that was attitude. As in Basic Training we always yelled out our company slogan when taking seats. Not sure where that came from, we knew who we were and no one else gave a damn. Why should they? Outside of a few close relatives and a loved one or two, no one really cared what happened to any of us. Maybe that's just my opinion but it's the only one I've got, so I'll stick with it.
Anyhow, in Basic the yell was, "Alphagators! The best by test! Grrr!" Not a one of us had any say in writing those words and probably didn't care but we were told to yell them so that's what we did.
Our days in Infantry Training changed that, at least the author part. You could say our take on our new yell reflected a change in attitude, a change the Army seemed to accept though it had several levels of meaning. At first our instructed yell was "B-4-3! Rough and tough! Hard to bluff! We don't mess with no one!" Not grammatically correct but seein' as how we weren't being trained as editors, I doubt it mattered. Next phase a couple of weeks later, the yell evolved into, "B-4-3! Rough and tough! Hard to bluff! We don't really care!" Finally, at the suggestion of an outsider, it became, "B-4-3! Rough and tough! Hard to bluff! We don't give a f***!" Yup, there was something to that last one that spoke to the soul. I figure the Army saw it as an expression of aggression. Maybe. Could also be an expression of depression. Or resignation to our fate.
Don't know if it was that way with those dog soldiers in WWII, looked to me like they had a cause worth fighting for. As for us, it was different. Darkly different. I can't speak for everyone of us grunts in the making but I was sure sinking into a hole. Not that I gave it much conscious thought. I knew where I was going and that place was someplace I didn't want to be. People died there. Were maimed there. And for reasons based on opinion, not fact. So I did what I figured most of us were doing; tried my best to not think about it. Take it one step at a time. As for our company yell, it was about the same as our attitude toward punishment; what're they gonna do, stick us in the infantry and send us to Vietnam? Maybe our fates weren't the worst they could do but it had to be close.
I recall it being the seventh week of training. Maybe about five in the afternoon of a spring day. Our training company was divided into four platoons, three infantry, one mortar. The mortar boys found themselves at the far end of a long line of tradition, that of being loose cannons with bad attitudes and generally free with their language. Not sure where that came from, out of having to carry heavy chunks of metal and ammo around just for the fun of it. The way I see it, the Army figured them the lowest of the low when it came to talent. Lower than cooks, even lower than us grunts. When shit flowed downhill it was cleaned up by the mortar platoon. Yeah, us grunts had bad attitudes but we were nothing compared with the mortar boys; they'd dragged attitude down into the realm of art. Even poetry.
We often added chants to our marching. Helped pass the time and keep us in step. Most of those chants were passed onto us from above though we sometimes were allowed to add a word or two. Not always better words but it was nice being included as human beings now and then. So it was that on that afternoon the mortar boys approached the company area with a jingle of their own. A good one, real good one. Brought us grunts to the windows just to bask in the radiance of their words.
Let me step back one more time. FTA. Those letters meant a lot back then. For us it simply meant F*** The Army. Not that we could or even was physically possible but somehow saying or thinking those words made some of us feel a little better. Not much you can do when you're impotent. We did what we were told but didn't have to be happy about it.
On the flip side there was some kind of traveling, Hollywood freak show of a carnival headed by Jane Fonda, called Free The Army. Personally I didn't see that happening anytime soon. Though I felt their intentions were good, I found them pretty much as impotent as us boys in green. Also had much less chance of having their shit blown to the winds. To my way of thinking, softening the word F*** to Free was dishonest, fearful and something of an insult to us grunts. Maybe being able to stay at home in the peace of the Hollywood hills just didn't give them attitude enough.
Back to the mortar platoon. Softening light of sunset behind them. Idyllic scene of repose in the foothills of Mount Rainier. Our heroes striding out in unison, doing their country proud and even more so us teary-eyed grunts at the windows as they called out the Delayed Cadence Count (beginning of course on the left foot as all things in the Army did that involved boots in motion. One word per stride). Sheer poetry.
One, f*** the Army.
Two, f*** the Army.
Three, f*** the Army.
Four, f*** the Army.
One, f***-it,
Two, f***-it,
Three, f***-it,
Four, f***-it.
One, two, three, four.
One, two, three, four.
F
T
A
We heard them through two cycles of the chant. There may have been more. There may have been many more. In my warped, little mind danced visions of the mortar platoon parading through residential neighborhoods and schoolyards, mothers and teachers running in terror, covering the innocent ears of children in hopes they not hear such vile language. Yeah, such thoughts made my grin even wider.
Once in the company area they were met by one of our drill sergeants. As though that mattered to our heroes. We rarely saw our Drill Sergeants. We were guided to the field by trainee squad leaders and shake 'n bake sergeants (seemed a lot of buck sergeants were being picked off in Vietnam so the Army came up with a six-week school to transform trainees into leaders of men). There he yelled for all to hear (in what we thought of as a Philippino accent),
"No one f*** with the Army in two hundred years, you not be the first!"
That was about it for punishment. What could they do to them, stick 'em in the mortar platoon and ship 'em off to Vietnam?
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