They were there waiting for us. A half dozen of them. It was the young snarlers who came to the bus doors, screamin' and foamin' at the mouth. Their flood of foul language slammed us like like a tidal wave. Odd though. There wasn't a four letter word in the bunch. Just that they had a way of spittin' words like maggot or scum bag like they were curses. Gave us a new outlook on foul language. And their words carried meaning. Like all true cussing should. Didn't exactly know what that meaning was but we all got the idea there was no fun in our immediate futures. That it was best to agree with them even if we really didn't.
Mainly the snarlers wanted us off the buses. Fast. And what we considered fast didn't cut mustard with them. They were giving us our first lesson in never being fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, man enough, no matter what we did.
Turned out they weren't forest rangers even though they were wearin' hats just like Smokey Bear. Weren't sergeants neither. I got clued into that real quick. All she took was one of the screamers to go nose to nose with a trainee and share a rainbow of saliva wrapped around "I ain't a sergeant you frickin' loser. I AM A DRILL SERGEANT!" Yup, that was a clue alright.
So there we stood. Four wavy lines of fear, trying to not make eye contact with any of the demons. Trying to be invisible. Praying we'd be overlooked, passed by. All the while knowing someone was going to get singled out and killed, right there in front of us, as an example of what could happen for making a mistake. And the poor bugger not even knowing what the mistake was.
However, at one point or another during this eternal, hour long introduction to hell, most everyone of us got the nose-to-nose, saliva sprayed description of our low-life selves, our complete uselessness, our failure at being men, our excellent chances of being left to rot and die in some leech-infested swamp. And followed that with a detailed description of what they would do with our girlfriends, wives or fiances now that the ladies finally had a chance to meet a real man, all while we were still in our body bags.
One of the Drill Sergeants - the one who was married to the blonde lady in the new Mustang. She wasn't exactly old enough to be his mother, unless they met in Texas. You see, he went out of his way one day to point her out and let us know how old she was. Yeah, she was a fine looking woman. My guess was they had the ceremony where they met, in the NCO Club with Jim Beam as best man. But keep in mind I'm a judgmental northern boy who don't know any better - broke the four letter word ban. Couldn't blame him one bit 'cause he'd had two wisdom teeth pulled that morning. Bein' a man among men he probably didn't have any novocaine. Had 'em ripped out with a pair of rusted lineman's pliers. Now he was in a world of hurt and taking his mind off it by being nasty as hell. Only he called it "jumping dead in our shit." Over the next couple of months I heard that phrase a lot. Didn't take but one hearing to pick up its gist. Learned quickly I didn't want anybody messin' with my shit. No sir. Came to be as protective of my shit as the King of Hawaii. Wrote me a mental note: Be careful with my shit.
After our Welcome to Your New Home in the Army meeting we were divided up into four equal sized groups, alphabetically by last name. Seemed someone in the office was on the ball. Made me feel a little better there was some civilization nearby. Maybe keep a leash on the pit bulls in the Smokey Bear hats. Then we grabbed our duffles and set off screaming and running to the barracks buildings.
You remember the buildings? The ones about which it be said if you put flame to both a cigarette and the barracks at the same time it'd be a close race to ash. My bunk was upstairs on the top. Jim Weldon had the bottom bunk as they were double-deckers. Up a flight of stairs, yeah they were wood stairs, don't think the Army had a handle on concrete back in 1940, and through the front door. Straight ahead was another set of stairs. To the left was the latrine. Above the latrine was Corporal Myrick's room. He was one seriously strack troop. Strack being a compliment. He put the spit in shine. Told us how to make a bunk. Arrange our foot and wall lockers, stand at attention, parade rest, where to hide our Johnsons. Mostly his job was keeping us from getting ourselves in a world of hurt. Figured that was because he wanted his life to flow as smoothly as possible. If we screwed up, his Johnson was in trouble. Not sure the pecking order of Johnson and shit. Not even sure what Johnson was. But you didn't want anyone stepping in or on your Johnson. Or your shit. Maybe they were the same?
Upstairs our home consisted of a double row of bunks. The rows were separated down the middle by holy ground. The only time a Trainee - that's what we were - ever stepped there it was in stocking feet. And with scrub buckets, mops, floor wax and buffing rags in hand. Make that floor as clean and shiny as the Pope's soul. If you walked that linoleum in boots you best have at least three stripes on your sleeve.
Along the walls were our lockers, olive drab green in color. Everything just so. Underwear folded just so. Socks rolled into perfect little footballs. Shaving brush and cup in just the right spot. Didn't know what the hell that was all about. Didn't anybody use that brush. Someone had a scam going on. But that's the kind of Army we were in. Nothing seemed to make much sense. And top that off with the Drill Sergeants bein' pissed off all the time. I mean all the time.
At the top of the stairs sat two garbage cans. Didn't know at first what it was that made me uneasy when I first saw them. If I had any hair left on my head it'd been standin' on end when I walked by. Kind of a vortex of unseen power. Took a day or two before I learned the reason. Those cans were the barracks gods. Kinda on the level of a woods nymph. Not a whole lot of power but you didn't want to mess with them.
So it's a regular kind of training day. Hum-tiddly-um, Winnie-the-Pooh kind. Nothin' special. But somehow a Trainee screws up. Trainees always screw up. Didn't even know he screwed up until he found his ass on the ground with a coupla DI's standin' above him and sprayin' spit all over the place. He be thinkin' it's all history after a minute of misery. But he be wrong. Corporal Myrick comes to pay him a visit after chow. Tells him to get his can of Brasso. Now Brasso is something a regular human being don't have much use for. But a trainee learns it's his best friend. Polishes buttons, belt buckles and gold tooth crowns. Also garbage cans. Like the ones at the top of the stairs. The ones worn smooth and thin after thousands of rubbings. Looked like stainless steel. Glowed in the dark. We all got intimate with those cans over the two months. On our knees, polishing and praying that when we be done Corporal Myrick will smile. Let us go back to our gear and get ready for morning. Happy with that lesser misery.
The latrine was the closest thing we had to a happy place. Nobody with stripes comes in to actually jump in our shit when they had a spittin' chance. The room was divided in half by a wall. One side for crappin', peein' and shavin' as one big, happy family. You get to know someone real well when you can't hide from what they smell like on the inside. Don't nobody seem to smell good in there.
The shower was a great place if you liked bein' in the middle of twenty naked men. Singing, tellin' tales and playing the ever popular, grab-ass. Can't tell you what grab-ass was. That's 'cause I don't know. Maybe we did. Best ask my big brother. He used to use those words a lot when talking 'bout his days in the beer Army of mid-50s Germany. Can't say that there was any actual ass grabbing goin' on even there. But who knows? There were a lot of lonely GIs in Germany with time on their hands, maybe also an ass or two, while they waited for the Russians to come storming over the border. Whatever the case, crappin' and being naked with your buddies went a long way towards making us an Army to be feared.
Once I was assigned to a unit, I had an address. Since I had an address, people could write me letters. But first I had to send them one so's they'd know where I was. The new address was A/5/1, Fort Campbell, KY. With a zip code I've long since forgotten. Over the weeks and months I wrote to Lois nearly every day. That's 'cause we were in love. And she's the one I missed till I hurt something awful. Yup, I was a wimp. I don't want to include those letters. Kinda too personal in an embarrassing way. But I do want to include the one's I sent to others. Maybe they're not exactly how I wrote them. Lucky for me I can write what I want and remember it the way I'd like it to have been. Generally speaking they're the truth.
Dear Mom,
I don't know if being in the Army is better or worse than I expected. And ain't even sure what it was I expected. First off we get yelled at a lot. Seems the Drill Sergeants are always mad about something. No matter what we do it seems to be wrong. About the best I can hope for is to not be noticed. You don't get noticed by not screwing up. Guess that's what they're looking for.
Right now I'm sittin' on my bunk upstairs in the Fourth Platoon barracks of Alpha Company. The cadre tell us we're Alphagators. Can't say for sure if that's intentional or not. From the way the Drill Sergeants talk, it might be a misspelling. I'd ask them but I'm not that stupid.
On the first day we were set up with Trainee squad and platoon leaders. Kinda like fake sergeants. Seems they chose the guys who said they'd had ROTC. I suspect they intended that ROTC to have been in college. But some of them ain't but eighteen. Maybe they thought the Boy Scouts was the same thing. Anyway, I'm not one of them.
Bein' young's all well and good but our Trainee Platoon Leader is a full-fledge psycho by the name of Williamson. He is a throw back to the days of knuckle-draggers who's only use for hands, besides countin' that is, is to beat the living bejeezus out of most anyone who don't think the sun rises and sets out of his backside. Wouldn't be so bad if he was a little guy but he ain't. Six foot five and raw boned. Got a feel about him like he'd have a fine time workin' the rack in hell someday. Rumor has it he blinded a nun who passed between him and his paper bag wrapped bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 while he was layin' in the gutter and tryin' to remember where he'd left his pants.
I steer clear of him but he do pose a temptation every night. Lays in his bunk after lights out and sets to moanin' about how horny he is. And how good he had it in prison with what he called his Fifi bag. Then go into a detailed description of how to make one. Figure the two of them coulda walked hand-in-hand off into the sunset.
My temptation is to sneak up on his bunk after he falls asleep and hold a pillow over his face till he stops wiggling. I know I'd just get a whuppin' out of it, so I don't. But the thought gives me some comfort and I fall to sleep with a smile on my face.
Your son,
Mark
PS. His name ain't really Williamson but I figure if he ever sees this letter, that's all she wrote.
We slept in double decker bunks. The Army had our best interests in mind when they had us in alternating directions. My head above Weldon's feet. Mostly I think the idea was to have our assholes to line up. Don't know why but in the over-all scheme of the way the Army does things, that's the part of the body that matters most. On the other hand, they told us it slowed down the spread of disease. Seemed to make sense. If they wanted our bodies killed, Vietnam called for far less explaining than Kentucky.
Outside of Williamson most everybody was easy to get along with. 'Bout the only thing most of them seemed to want was to put this Army business behind them. Half of us were from Minnesota. The other from Tennessee. There was a bunch from Memphis and a whole lot of good old boys from the Smokies to the east. The guys from the hills had a way of talking that put you at ease. One of the nicest men I ever met was Elmer who said he was from Maryville. Only he softened the whole word up to Marraville. Then he'd say, "I ain't really from Maryville. Only you probably never heard of where I'm truly from." Truth was I'd never heard of Maryville.
The best part about our first day was it being a Friday. As nasty as the Drill Sergeants seemed to be, they were probably in a good mood. To them the Army was a job. And like any job, TGIF. They had a whole weekend to rest up so they could be extra mean come Monday.
Having a weekend right off was a good thing for us also. Time to get used to living in a bedroom with two dozen roommates. Learn that though each is different, we all fart. Couldn't go anywhere. We were confined to the Company area for the first six weeks. That was okay. I had no money and didn't know where to go if I did. The best part was having Corporal Myrick around. He taught us most everything we needed to know about the day to day basics. He was dark, medium tall, a whippet. Had more starch in his fatigues than cloth. They coulda stood by themselves. Wasn't a screamer so when he talked, we listened. From him we learned it was best to give a shit or we'd be in a world of hurt, no doubt give our Company Commander a case of the ass, or have someone with stripes jump dead on our Johnsons. Good man.
Growing up in Minnesota, the land of the liberal, I'd learned that the line between religion and government was never crossed. Even our Republicans were Democrats and believed in the separation strongly. So I was looking forward to Sunday and a chance to attend Mass. Army couldn't get me there. Can't say I was ever an out going or devout Catholic. But I never missed Mass. It was meditation time for me. A chance to think things over. Even drag God into the process. So, come Sunday morning, me and about twenty other of the lost hopped on the bus. A chance to sink deep inside and mull things over.
Well, my Mass attending days lasted about three weeks. Had no problem with the religion part but the priest was another story. Turned out to be a kind of Drill Priest. Apparently our responses during service weren't loud enough. Gave him a case of the ass. He didn't come out and use that word 'cause in the Bible it only refers to donkeys. He did, however, boom out for us to sound off like we were in formation. Meditation didn't seem to fit in. Figuring on an infinite God, that's what the Baltimore Catechism taught us, I went looking elsewhere. And found the Supreme Being in the quiet of the Sunday morning barracks. Everyone pretty much stayed to themselves. Time to read, write letters home, organize your gear at a leisurely pace. Mosey around once in a while, quietly get to know everyone. Kinda more like what Jesus had in mind should He have been stuck in Basic Training during war time. Sundays became my happy place.
Monday. Screamin' Monday. Hello world, where am I? Boot hits wooden stair. Door creaks open. Hand slaps lights. Rise and shine trainees! Assholes and elbows! Out of your fart sacks and on the street in fifteen minutes! Couldn't shake the cobwebs outta my head. Stumbled around thinkin' about assholes and elbows. Nothin' to be thinkin' about when there's a bunk to be made and uniform to put on. Move fast boy. No sooner do I grab my Johnson and put it in my pocket than that voice downstairs starts screamin' again. And twenty-four bodies trot down the stairs. Seems the Army ain't interested in stair trottin'. Flyin' is more their speed and they let us know. But for the moment they've got other fish for us to fry. Set us off to the main road, hang a right and go a couple of blocks to a big field where we do our morning two mile double time. Some of the boys try to drop out. Bad move. Coupla D.I.s pay them a visit and encourage them to rejoin us. Help 'em on their way with a spit-shined boot to the hind quarters. When they start flaggin' again it's up to us to drag them along. Make our lives miserable and build teamwork. More than anything it built an Us against Them attitude.
Memory of those days is waning. My crutch is a memoir written a decade ago. Time flies. Memory rots. Top that off with where I'm sitting. Overlooking Perdido Bay in Alabama. Fourteenth floor. Seventy above in January. Sure not a courier or grunt place to be. Honestly embarrassing.
Seems like I'm zig-zagging down the center line of a life full of contradictions. What I want is to be on the water. Without salt in it. My mind keeps drifting back to catching bass on a slip bobber rig last October. Late enough in the year to be surrounded by bare hardwoods and miles of silence so profound I could here the chattering of squirrels a half mile away. A pleasure. Even catching bass on a lake where they have a love of sacrifice was a hoot. But the best was being alone with my thoughts. A planet for them to roam uninterrupted. Letting my mind run free is what I do best. Start it up one direction then she runs off where she wants. Where she needs. Unseen hand in action. When I break free of the reverie there's the million dollar view.
No need to hurry the day out there on the water. Goes fast enough on its own. Seems like no day is long enough. Always more to do. Always more time to waste.
What happens after death is beyond my ken. There's a bucket full of theories on that. Some even say they know. But I kind of doubt that. As to knowledge of what's going on, in and beyond this universe, we don't know squat. Probably never will. But if I had my druthers after I bite the big one, sitting on a lake, all by myself, surrounded by the life of the northwoods and catching a fat largemouth once in a while, wouldn't be a bad place to spend eternity. Sure beats the hell outta layin' in a box with worms eatin' your innards. Like that's avoidable. Whatever it turns out to be, should be interesting. Or nada.
'Course over the weeks our marching to and from the morning run got a lot better. We even began to look like real soldiers. But that gettin' up at 4 a.m. never got easy. After a week of it, wake up time became a part of me. Eyes would pop open. I'd say a little prayer, "Dear Lord please let it be no later than one. I need the sleep. How am I gonna kill Vietcong if I'm tired all the time?" But it'd always be 3:59:59 and then the boot would hit the stair.
Guess we were lucky. Lights out was 8 p.m. The Army wanted us to get our eight hours sleep. Next door it was another story. Seems Alpha Company always won the ribbon as the best training company of our battalion. Cycle after cycle it was always the same. Had so many award ribbons on our guidon it looked like a pom-pon. Maybe we were lucky. Maybe good. Maybe our DI's had friends in high places. Whatever, the Senior Drill Sergeant of Bravo Company didn't much care. Had his boys up at 3:30 every training morning. Screamin' and a yellin' at the top of his lungs. How anyone could be so pissed off that early was beyond me. Look up the phrase "has the ass" in the Lexicon of Military Jargon and no doubt you'll see his picture. Made us feel like a bunch of candy-assed, prima donnas sleepin' to four o'clock.
After the morning trot it was fall back into the barracks, clean it up and get our shit ready for the training day. All the while knowing there was bacon frying in the mess hall. Could smell it on the march back from the field. Smell it in the barracks. Can even smell it now. I smell bacon, I think Basic Training. Don't eat it much anymore but I'll smell it anytime. Mmm-mmm. Even the bad times have their good times.
Breakfast in the mess hall wasn't nothin' like eating in a restaurant. Had to get there running and yelling. That's the way we went anywhere when out of the barracks. Runnin' and yellin'. The boys in the Smokey Bear hats liked to know where we were. Didn't want us sneakin' up on them. Scarin' them so's they dropped a load and ruined their fine starch jobs.
Once at the mess hall it was an up and down the horizontal ladder. Couldn't get in line till you made it both ways. Then it was get in line time. Stand at parade rest. Total silence. Like monks. Unless you were a fat boy. Now I mean no disrespect toward the fat boys. Compared to the fat boys in the today's world, ours weren't but sightly oversized. But the Army didn't like any kind of fat boys back then. It was their joy to get them on the slant board to the side of the horizontal ladder. Doin' sit ups till the Drill Sergeant leaning over them got tired of being mean-mouthed. If they didn't lose weight fast enough they got sent to the fat farm. Not sure what that was like but I figure hunger was a big part.
The food inside wasn't much as I recall. On the other hand we were so hungry it didn't matter a lot what they did to the food. All I wanted was more. Hungry all the time. Inside, wolfing down food, I had my first piece of corn bread. Creamed, chipped beef on toast. Known for decades as shit on a shingle. Didn't know what it was. Looked like oatmeal to me. Put milk and sugar on it. Never did that again.
I'm a little worried those few of you who read this will think I'm going off the deep end as far as cursing. But that ain't true. Not calling creamed, chipped beef shit on a shingle would be doing the Army a disservice. Lose a piece of Americana. It's the way it was.
In defense of the food, the best pork chop I ever ate was at Fort Campbell. Pulled an untouched one off a sergeant's plate rather than throw it in the garbage. Stood at the exit door cleaning trays and savoring that chop.
The 4th Platoon didn't have a drill Sergeant. Not that we minded. Instead we had Sergeant Richar. He was our bad boy buddy. "Don't call me Drill Sergeant, I work for my money." As to off the wall, he was a case in point. Rumor had him being from Canada. Had a gruff bulldog voice. Not a big man but had a huge ego. God's gift to mankind. Man's man with a tendency toward alcohol and nicotine. Been in the Army for a dozen years and still a buck sergeant. Didn't know if he'd been up and down the rank ladder or just reached his level of incompetence. Liked to point at his Combat Infantryman's Badge and say, "You know what this says? Says I'm a paid killer." 'Course the bulk of us Trainees were a half year from saying the same.
And that's where these entries are heading. Yeah, we were bozos in basic. Didn't know squat. Takin' it one day at a time. But there wasn't much danger of anyone dying at Fort Campbell. Can't say anybody I met along the way wanted to die. Didn't want to think about it either. The blessing of basic was that combat seemed so far in the future. Too far away to be real. Too far from the lives we'd led to be real. How the heck can war seem real to someone like a baby boomer. We were children. I was 21. Not too far over the average. The subtitle for Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five was The Children's Crusade. Not sure what you'd call Vietnam. On the average we were a year or two younger. Oops, there I go whinin' again. Didn't have to go, so I shouldn't complain.
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