A Soldier’s Apprenticeship
West Point, Fort Riley, Kansas, and Fort Benning, Georgia
While I attended Georgia Tech, my father approached our congressman, Eugene Cox, enlisting his help obtaining an appointment to the United States Military Academy. Never having laid eyes on a West Pointer, the “long gray line” held no great attraction. Everybody knew the lore about plebe initiation in Beast Barracks, the hazing, and walking off petty demerits in the Area; and about the army football team under Red Blaik. Army featured Glenn Davis and Doc Blanchard and went undefeated in 1944 on the way to the first of three straight national championships. None of that provided any particular push to attend West Point. The Academy trained pilots (the air force remained part of the army until 1947), and my ambition remained set on becoming a flyer. Congressman Cox secured the appointment, and on 2 July 1945, I became a member of the class of 1949.
The Point
Immersion into the plebe system began the minute the aspirant cadet stepped through the portal of the Central Barracks area. Of all the recollections of West Point, the first day remains the most vibrant. A first classman confronted me and said only four responses existed for any question: “Yes, Sir!,” “No, Sir!,” “No excuse, Sir!,” and “Sir, I do not understand!” Instead of being put off, “No excuse, Sir!” became sort of a personal axiom. It succinctly summed up all the life lessons I had learned growing up. No matter the circumstances, failure was a personal responsibility.
Beast Barracks initiated the process of instilling the foundation of “Duty, Honor, Country.” More than a motto, it acts as a creed, a commandment. For eight weeks plebes received orientation and instruction on the Honor Code and what it meant. Aside from initial military training and physical conditioning, the initiates were proselytized, beginning the process of exorcising the civilian and building a soldier. A plebe must always display a soldierly bearing, maintaining an exaggerated posture at attention whether seated or walking. The old joke had it that plebes ranked only the superintendent’s dog, the commandant’s cat, and all the admirals in the U.S. Navy. They were assigned details like delivering mail and laundry and demeaning mess chores. They memorized military terms, regulations, and jargon and repeated them verbatim to a hectoring senior. Part of the rite of passage involved upperclassmen conducting a walking tour of the grounds: the Plain, the huge parade ground that would become so much a part of our lives at the Academy; the statues of some of the great heroes along its perimeter; and the cemetery with its Old Cadet chapel and the graves of fallen heroes. No surprise that the markers of Winfield Scott and George Custer particularly stood out.
A large percentage of the incoming cadets had served in World War II. Many had opted for West Point because it got them out of combat. In the middle of August, we had just finished hiking up a tough hill when somebody announced the Japanese surrender. With that, a number of cadets said, “That’s it. I’m out of here.” With the war over, they resigned and severed their commitment to the army. Other veterans could not handle the “Mickey Mouse” harassment of Beast Barracks and simply quit. A surprising number of those who remained graduated at the top of our class.
After Beast Barracks we marched on the Plain and rendered our oaths as members of the 707-strong fourth class (at West Point the numbers are reversed). During the war West Point went to a three-year cycle. The return to the four-year program left those who entered in 1944 in limbo. The army allowed half to graduate on schedule (1947); the rest became the new class of 1948. The postwar classes were much larger than in the interwar years, which created crowding. In response to the housing crunch, barrack rooms designed for two now roomed three. The initiation continued throughout the first year. Academic classes were followed in the afternoon with sessions in tactics, drill, and ceremonies. Plebes commit to memory procedures such as the five-paragraph operations order and “estimate of the situation” and must be able to “spout” them off on command as well as answer purely plebe questions such as “the days” (the number of days remaining for a series of significant events such as the army-navy game, the beginning of the holidays, June Week, and graduation).
The fourth and third class curriculum offered academic subjects like any university: math, English, a language (French, Spanish, German, or Russian), and in the second year, physics and chemistry. The only choice was which language to take. Supposedly the language would be determined by preference, prior exposure, and the results of a diagnostic test. Although I had had a year of Spanish and requested it, I was assigned to French. In addition to academic classes, we took and received grades in military subjects like military topography, aptitude for service, and tactics. Initially cadets were grouped alphabetically, but after six weeks placement depended on performance. I ended up in the upper sections in math and English but in the last section in French. With only sixty demerits, I finished number 129 in the class.
Being naturally competitive, everyone cared about class standing, the Order of Merit. Because daily recitations, tests, and exams received such close grading—down to two decimal points—the Byzantine scoring meant the difference between my average and that of the lowest-ranked distinguished cadet amounted to 6 percent. For upperclassmen much more was riding on class standing: privileges, weekend passes, and the most vital of all, selection of branch. At the other end, cadets competed for the honor of being the class “goat”—the lowest-ranked cadet who avoided flunking out or being found (deficient in a subject) and turned back to the next class.
Physical fitness played a big role in our lives. West Point candidates took medical and physical fitness exams. The medical exam was like any other, but the physical fitness tests were more demanding. The Academy used a series of physical tests designed to determine whether the individual had the physical fitness to withstand the rigors of cadet life and, subsequently, military service. Meeting the requirements for successful application was only the beginning. Specially designed tests and obstacle courses were scheduled throughout the academic year. Plebes had to complete successfully a program of boxing, wrestling, swimming, and gymnastics. Those who failed took remedial classes and had to meet the standard; for a very few, this extra training spread over years.
Physical training constituted a part of the curriculum for four years. Cadets participate in a corps squad sport or activity (representing the Academy at the intercollegiate level or in intramurals). Qualifying for the plebe squad in one of the corps teams was a prized goal. Not only did the successful fourth classman have an opportunity to compete at the intercollegiate level, but he also would sit on a corps squad table in the dining room, where he was free from the onerous tasks that befell his less fortunate classmates who had to endure the rigors of the fourth class system.
Varsity football was king. Football weekends were very big events. The whole corps went to the army-navy game. Army went undefeated in 1945, beat Navy in Philadelphia, and emerged as consensus national champions. The undefeated season brought delight to the plebes because when army won, we got to fall out in the mess hall. Boxing was my sport. I made the plebe team and won all four of my scheduled fights under the guidance of our coach, Billy Cavanagh, a former professional middleweight. I liked the physical demands, the camaraderie, and the adrenaline rush I got when stepping into the ring, and, yes, also the feeling of relief and accomplishment when the bout ended. In addition to the many required activities for plebes, there were what seemed innumerable extracurricular activities: language and glee clubs, choir, academic coaching, chess, Pointer (the cadet magazine), or Howitzer (cadet yearbook). I served on the Howitzer staff each of my four years.
Attendance at chapel was mandatory. Reflective of the “Old Army,” it was High Church Episcopalian—even though members of other Protestant denominations predominated. The services were acceptable to me; I had no strong leanings toward any particular doctrine. The Cadet Prayer, like the Boy Scout Oath, did exert a strong sway. I remember some of the phrases: “Make us to choose the harder right instead of the easier wrong…. Help me to live above the common level of life…. Never to be content with the half-truth when the whole can be won.” The prayer set forth ideals—the quest for perfection—as the standard to be met. I always derived guidance and inspiration from those words.
That which is difficult to obtain, in this case women and not grace, becomes an obsession. With such rigorous limits on our free time, on places you could escort a date, and the decorum that regulated social events, women became a hot topic of conversation that contained a good deal of wishful thinking and exaggeration. Given my track record in that area, I pretty much avoided contact with the gentler sex.
June Week marked the end of the school year and gave reason for general celebration, especially for those at the top and on the bottom of the pyramid. For first classmen, it meant graduation and posting to their first duty assignments; for plebes, it marked liberation from the rigor of the fourth class regime and a one-month leave to go home.
After the all-too-short leave we returned for an eight-week round of military training at Camp Buckner, a cantonment near the Academy. As in Plebe Year, academics dominated the next nine months. The curriculum closely resembled the first year except for the addition of courses in physics and chemistry. Now that I knew the ropes, my class standing improved except for a disastrous French final and a miserable score in military topography.
Many compare West Point to a monastery, and for me it felt like one. I remained tongue-tied around girls. During my Christmas leave in my second (sophomore) year, however, I did get up the courage to ask Lou Bowen, James Bowen’s sister, to wear my “A” pin. (The “A” stood for army, and giving it to a girl was like asking her to wear your fraternity pin.) While not a formal engagement, it meant that to me. She was beautiful, very popular, talented, and poised. Most important, she was a fine young woman. She was everything I wanted—and everything I was not. I could not believe that she would be interested in me. In short order, I fell head-over-heels in love with her. Our courtship would last about eighteen months—a wonderful, joyous time—and then turned sour. I was broken-hearted, and it would be years before someone took her place. I will always be grateful to Lou for showing me how having someone special in your life could bring so much happiness.
Hopes for boxing success unraveled early in the season when a punch to the kidney sidelined me. The doctor warned another similar hit might cost me my commission. Since boxing played such a large role in my life at the Academy, the news was a real body blow. Although nobody confused me for the next Joe Louis, I enjoyed everything about boxing.
An uneventful Cow Year followed. Although my grades kept me in the top third of my cohort, they slipped across the board. I finally made corporal in the Second Regiment. Boxing provided the only highlight. Risking further injury and my commission, I made the team, lettered, and placed second in my weight division at the Eastern Intercollegiate Boxing Tournament. At season’s end my teammates voted me captain for the next year.
During the summer before our last year, the army staged tours of Fort Bragg, the home of the Eighty-Second Airborne, together with five air force installations to help us decide on branch preference. The summer before we went on a “Combined Arms” trip to the traditional combat arms branches—infantry, armor, artillery, and engineers. At Fort Bragg we went through about two weeks of paratrooper ground training, flew in an aircraft, and watched jumpers exit the craft. Clearly they pulled all the stops to impress us. The training was perfect, and the paratroops assigned to guide us could not have been sharper. Everything went like clockwork. Col. William Westmoreland, division chief of staff, orchestrated it all. Maj. Gen. James Gavin, the commanding general, visited training and spoke informally to us as we clustered around him—just as he had done with his soldiers in World War II. Everyone left North Carolina very impressed.
Having wanted to be a fighter pilot seemingly forever, I greatly anticipated the air force trips, but after Fort Bragg, it all went downhill. We visited fighter, bomber, close-air support, reconnaissance, and troop carrier units. Unlike the airborne, where everything was laid on, our arrival at the air base meant waiting around until the escort officer could be retrieved from the officers’ club or the golf course. The transport to the barracks usually showed up late. I was most interested in the fighter jocks. They regaled us with stories about heavy drinking: “See that pilot? We have to pour him into the cockpit, but he can fly that airplane!” They—and most of them were married—boasted of their philandering exploits. If they sought to convince me—with stories of wild living and their obvious lack of discipline—how great it would be to join the air force, they failed.
My first class year proved less than memorable. Except in tactics, my grades continued their retrograde movement. The grades in social sciences, military history, and ordnance told the story of a complacent cadet who had stopped applying himself. And my great expectations of leading army to boxing laurels never materialized. Another kidney shot, suffered in training in the lead-up to the first meet, ended my fighting career. Boxing bestowed my biggest morale boost and incentive, and suddenly it all evaporated. Coach Cavanagh understood and made me coach of the plebe squad. The plebe team won all its matches; that gave me some satisfaction, but it paled next to my dreams of what could have been.
During the winter of our last year, as graduation neared, we received additional branch orientations. Officers representing different branches briefed us, showed combat films, and oriented the class on equipment. The Infantry presentation especially stood out. They showed John Huston’s Battle for San Pietro, about a failed attack on the stalemated Italian front in World War II. The gritty film captured real infantry combat: soldiers firing, running, being hit and falling, and dead on the ground. Leaves could be seen clipped from branches as bullets zinged through olive groves. Watching it prompted questions: Am I tough enough and smart enough to be an infantryman in combat? Do I have the guts and brains to be an infantryman?
One of my barracks mates in the second year was Doug Bush. A decorated lieutenant, Doug had served as a pathfinder in the famed 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division. An impressive guy with Hollywood good looks and a self-confidence bred by being a veteran paratrooper, Bush did his best to sell me on airborne. Although impressed, I still wanted those pilot wings.
Despite the negative reaction to the air force tour, childhood dreams did not die easily. When it came time to fill out the branch wish list, I picked air force pilot. Cadets could select air force ground if they wanted to be in the air force in a nonrated capacity, but I wanted to fly. My next choices were infantry, armor, and artillery. I even had “United States Air Force” engraved inside my class ring. But when I reflected about the time at Fort Bragg and the air force tour, doubts mounted. Those questions prompted by viewing San Pietro flooded in. After much agonizing, I decided on the Infantry, but the paperwork was already filed. Then the “flat foot dodge” occurred to me: failure on the air force eye exam would disqualify me for my first choice. The eye exam duly “failed,” I got Infantry.
The long-anticipated graduation ceremony marked our last muster on the Plain and the final metamorphosis from cadet to officer. Marching that day it occurred to me, of all the many influences over those four years, the greatest came from the tactical officers, or tacs. The tacs personified West Point and by extension the army—they prepared callow young men to lead soldiers into battle. While never expecting to bring glory and renown to the Academy, I vowed never to do anything that would bring dishonor on that great institution or the army.
My parents drove up from Georgia and took part in some of the social events that attended graduation. Like all parents they were very proud. If they thought about the prospect of me going off to war, they never mentioned it. In the afterglow of victory in World War II—despite the onset of the Cold War—war did not seem likely.
For many in my class, with better romantic skills or luck, another ceremony awaited them—marriage. Slots in the chapel were filled, and nuptials went off in rapid succession. With the rounds of weddings and parties complete, we said our good-byes and headed our separate ways, knowing we would always share that special bond of membership in the class of 1949.
Twenty of us took the opportunity to travel to Europe on free transportation aboard a hospital ship. The ten-day passage went by very quickly because a contingent of women from Special Services were on the same ship. Add young, just-graduated, and unattached men to young, equally unencumbered young ladies, and things will happen. Some of my awkwardness around the fairer sex eroded on that voyage.
After landing in Bremerhaven, eight of us bought Zundapp motorcycles and set off on our various itineraries. I paired with John Saxon, another Georgia boy, bound for Paris. Biking through the Low Countries and northeastern France, we would arrive in a town late in the afternoon and secure a stay in a hotel or pension—always careful to wash off the road grime and dress properly as presentable American gentlemen. In Paris we met two girls from Oklahoma and treated them to some “real food”—burgers and shakes—at a U.S. armed forces snack bar. After discovering they were headed for the South of France and Rome, we observed the proprieties—they introduced us to their parents—and followed them to Nice and Italy.
The Poor Bloody Infantry
After returning home and a couple of weeks with my family, I made the trek out to Kansas and Fort Riley. Every newly minted second lieutenant—except products of the Officer Candidate Schools—attended the Officer Basic Course, Branch Immaterial. The course served as an eye-opener. It instructed us in areas only superficially handled in previous training. The Riley course threw us together with ROTC officers from colleges all around the country and with men from all branches of the service. Just as intended, this mix of officers broadened perspectives and produced lasting personal associations. Instruction included the organization and mission of each branch. Practical work sessions took us to the training areas, where we planned and participated in tactical exercises designed to require a basic understanding of the capabilities and limitations of the different branches. Some of the field training consisted of demonstrations involving artillery, armored vehicles, engineers, and support branches. Administration, supply, transportation, and other necessary activities were included in the instruction. Like the tactical instruction, these sessions introduced us to the many requirements that must be planned and implemented in any successful operation.
As is always the case, many valuable lessons came not from a field manual or the training program but from practical experience imparted by our instructors. Instructors described a situation and then asked for possible courses of action. Some of the problems seemed almost intractable. Among the instructors, Capt. Jack Null particularly stood out. After exhausting our ideas, someone would invariably turn to Null and ask, “Sir, what would you do?” He often answered, “I would turn to one of my outstanding assistants and ask him for his advice. Remember to surround yourself with capable subordinates.” Null’s advice—perhaps a truism but not always followed—was one of the best guides I ever received.
Fort Riley had long acted as a cavalry post: Custer served there as did, at various times, the Seventh Cavalry, and it housed the Cavalry School before the army finally retired its horses. About thirty retirees remained stabled on post. Several of us took the opportunity to go riding, and that sparked the interest of a couple of the old cavalrymen. One was retired Col. Hiram Tuttle, a legend in equestrian circles who rode the first American-bred horse to place in an Olympic dressage competition. Each Saturday morning he most graciously gave about a dozen of us instruction in the finer points of dressage. The other officer, Maj. Fred Jencks, a member of the school’s staff, took anyone who appeared for rides each Sunday. He led us over all sorts of terrain and lectured on cavalry tactics and the care of mounts. He also set up a cross-country military stakes ride for us. Although both were dyed-in-the-wool horse cavalrymen, neither tried to convince us that the horse still had a place on the modern battlefield. Both were most gracious; I have never forgotten them and their charming wives for their courtesy and friendliness.
Together with a classmate and very close friend, Bruce Peters, I took advantage of the instruction every weekend. During the week, we rose each morning at five thirty to go to the stables, saddle a horse, and ride for an hour before having to brush down the mount, put the gear away, and hurry to class. We also went on a couple “hunts,” consisting of officers—many old horse soldiers—and their wives, organized and conducted by the Riley Hunt Club. What an exciting experience it was riding to the hounds. A rider dragged a bag of chicken entrails over the landscape a few minutes before the hunt commenced. Afterward we assembled at the officers’ club for a magnificent brunch. Those were some of my happiest times in the army.
The Riley course, focusing on the duties of company grade officers with emphasis on the platoon leader, provided good training. The program gave me a much better picture of what to expect when I assumed my first platoon command, a situation I eagerly anticipated. Our graduation speaker was Lt. Gen. Edward H. Brooks, who commanded a corps in Europe and then headed the Personnel and Administration Department of the army. During his remarks he told us we should feel free to write him whenever we wished. I remembered that offer.
As my first “active-duty” army experience, Fort Riley proved extremely valuable. The program of instruction taught me many basic skills, and the varied backgrounds of my Riley classmates—sources of commission, military experience, and education—helped me see the profession of arms from a much broader perspective. The training provided a good foundation for “branch school,” where we would delve more deeply into the specific skills and knowledge required to be a qualified platoon leader. After Christmas leave we reported to our branch school. For me, that was Fort Benning, Georgia, home of the Infantry.
Everything about Fort Benning screamed Infantry. The Infantry School had existed there since 1919, and the post experienced an explosion during World War II as a training facility for infantry, armor, and airborne forces. The Infantry Officers Basic Course (IOBC) was well organized and fleshed out, in more specifically infantry terms, the basic leadership principles covered at Fort Riley. In common with all trainees who ever attended an army school, we complained about too much time spent in the classroom and not enough combat-and leadership-focused training. Better to learn the core requirements for a platoon leader than to be exposed to the many things that he might be called upon to know in the future. For those things about which I knew little or nothing, as experience later taught me, you could always find some NCO or officer who knew their stuff.
As at Riley, more practical knowledge—rather than doctrine and supposed theory—was acquired through personal contacts with seniors than in a classroom. Lt. Col. Louis G. Mendez, a member of the Infantry School staff, is a case in point. Mendez commanded an airborne battalion in the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Doug Bush often talked of how much the men respected—even revered—Mendez and suggested that I look up the colonel when I got to Benning. After “checking in,” I did just that. Colonel Mendez immediately invited me to his quarters. This outgoing friendliness was a characteristic of both him and his wife, Jean. On one occasion while talking to the colonel I confided my doubts about whether, under the test of combat, I could control my fear. “If you are thinking about your own safety,” he replied, “you’re not doing your job. You are supposed to be thinking about your men. Get up and go check on them when you come under fire. You’ll be too busy to think about yourself.” Colonel Mendez was right, and I never learned a more valuable lesson. Whenever I followed his advice, it worked. When I did not, the cold tentacles of fear began to clutch at my gut.
The Benning course could not end soon enough. Experiencing both eagerness and trepidation, I longed to put into practice all the theory and training received to date. At the same time I wrestled with self-doubt about failing to make the grade. That test had to wait. The idea of becoming an officer in the line Infantry never appealed; I wanted airborne. Jump qualification would not guarantee an airborne billet. Without combat experience, I had nothing that would confer any kind of status in the eyes of the men in my future platoon except being a West Point grad and paper certificates. Finagling a slot in jump school took some effort.
At that time, the army sent officers to jump school only if they had orders for an airborne posting. My orders had me slated for Okinawa. Remembering what General Brooks had said during the Fort Riley graduation ceremony, I wrote him expressing my desire to be a paratrooper. I dreamt up every conceivable argument to convince him that permitting me to go to jump school served the best interests of the army. The letter must have worked because the general commented, while talking to my IOBC class, that he had received a letter from a second lieutenant requesting assignment to jump school. He brought the matter up with Maj. Gen W. A. Burress, the Infantry School commandant, who agreed to accept all those in my class who wanted to attend jump school upon graduation from IOBC. This experience disabused me of ever again believing in the Old Army saw, “Never volunteer.”
Officer basic ended on Friday, 17 June 1950, and I reported to jump school the following Monday. About fifty second lieutenants from IOBC took advantage of the offer to attend jump school. For the first time in five long years I was physically active all day with no studying at night. Jump school was rigorous, physically challenging, and fun. Although the “Frying Pan” (training area) was very hot in June and July, I had the time of my life. I now fixed my sights on becoming a paratrooper. The Black Hats (training NCOs) were top-notch. Everything they did seemed perfect. No slack. The tiniest infractions—real or contrived—earned a “gimme ten” (push-ups). Naturally officers got it worse. We knew that the push-ups served as reminders to do it right the next time. There is no room for error. Mistakes can end in serious injury or death.
The first week consisted of ground drills: how to hit the ground and roll with your momentum so that injuries would be prevented, or so we hoped. We rehearsed the jump commands on the aircraft, what to do when we exited the door, how to maneuver the chute in the air to avoid other jumpers, preparation for landing, and landing, how to roll up your chute and return to the assembly area. The hard, exciting training produced plenty of adrenalin. The biggest challenge awaited us at the end of the week, when the trainees made a mock jump from the thirty-four-foot tower. Most people wash out at this stage. The tower provided enough sensation of height to weed out those who could not take that first step. For the rest of us, the leap off the short tower provided one of the most enjoyable parts of the course.
Tower Week followed. Initially we made jumps off the low tower. Not dissuaded by the groin chafing caused by the harness when it jerked tight or the “gimme ten” that awaited us, we competed to see which among us could make the most vigorous door exit. The next step involved being released from the top of the 250-foot tower. We donned a parachute harness attached to a chute tethered and held in a fully inflated position to a ring that was attached by a cable through one of the arms of the high tower. Upon command of the Black Hat we were hauled to the top of the tower. After receiving last-minute instructions megaphoned to us from below, we were cut loose, and floated to the ground. As we descended, the instructor continually shouted instructions for a student to slip his chute in the desired direction away from the tower as another trooper cut loose from an adjoining tower arm. The high tower provided our first experience of freely floating through the air. During the second week we also learned how to pack our parachutes. We packed five main and one reserve chute for the next week when we would make the five qualifying jumps. Riggers instructed us and meticulously supervised as we packed those all-important five chutes. No room for error. Jump school dropped this requirement shortly after our class graduated; the rationale being why spend valuable training time teaching soldiers how to pack chutes when they would never do it again unless they became riggers. Another qualification for jump week was the five-event physical fitness test: pull-ups, push-ups, sit-ups, squat jumps, and a 300-yard run. You either met the tough standard or no jump. The rigorous everyday physical training prepared us well.
Finally, jump week arrived. We chuted up in the sheds and underwent close inspection by the riggers. Then, after what seemed an interminable wait, our two sticks (the troopers who would be loaded into one aircraft) executed the paratrooper shuffle into the waiting aircraft. Buckle in. Take off. And then, as we entered the final approach, our jumpmaster yelled the commands: “Get Ready! Stand up! Check equipment! Sound off for equipment check! Stand in the door!” Hearts pounded and adrenalin rushed. The first student stepped into the door awaiting the next command. “Go!” With that, and a slap on the thigh, he exited the door as the remainder of the stick rapidly followed. The stick in the other door of the aircraft had gone through the same drill and exited at the same time.
I remember vividly the exhilaration. I made a good exit and immediately went into the proper position: head tucked looking at my boots, hands flat against the reserve chute ready to pull the ripcord if needed. Then the count: “One thousand! Two thousand! Three thousand!” As I reached three, my chute blossomed with a terrific jolt as my canopy caught the blast of air and slowed my body that had been hurtling through the air at about 110 miles per hour (the speed of the aircraft) to zero forward motion. Although body-wrenching, the jolt was comforting. My chute had opened. The next requirement involved checking the canopy. Was it fully deployed? Were there twists in the risers (the lines that connect the trooper’s harness to the chute skirt)? Mine was perfect. Now watch out for other troopers as we floated through a crowded sky. After only a few seconds it was time to prepare for landing. A quick check below. Nobody beneath me. Get ready to land! Slam! Go into the parachute landing fall. On my feet in an instant; roll up the chute, put it into the kit bag, and double-time to the assembly area. What a thrill! Jump stories filled the bus on the way back to the hangars and the sheds, where we shook out the leaves and other debris that may have gotten into the chute after the landing. We were through for the day.
The remaining four jumps were humdrum except for the third. Checking the canopy after it opened, I saw a huge hole (bigger than my helmet—the criterion for activating the reserve). I immediately pulled the ripcord of my reserve and yanked in the main canopy, tucking it under my arm so that it would not snarl with the reserve chute. I landed without injury. Unfortunately the weather was uncooperative on two of the days, so we made two jumps on Saturday morning followed by a quick cleanup and graduation. After our speaker concluded his remarks and pinned on our wings, an NCO walking behind us unobtrusively placed glider wings into our hand. At that time, the week of air transportability training and the glider ride we took during officer basic substituted for the same week of training in the airborne course. This class was the last to receive glider wings. Jump school lived up to all my imaginings. Those spit-shined jump boots were beautiful, and paratroops never tire of shining those boots.
During my first week in jump school, the North Koreans invaded the South. I heard the news while sitting on my bunk in a World War II wooden barracks spit-shining my jump boots. I vowed that I would not “miss out” on this war. Somehow I would get to Korea.