part0004

Fortunately, being raised a Navy brat, with a father that had come up through the ranks, I had been around the military long enough to recognize that some of those serving were not the sharpest knives in the drawer, and this guy struck me as among the dullest. And since I was older than most present for this medical news—and not officially in the military yet— questioning the informant was not a problem.

“Hey, medic, you want to check that again?”

Annoyed, he double-checked his clipboard, the sign of authority around here, it appeared.

“All right, what’s your number again?”

“Number fifty-one.”

“Oh, this isn’t you. Number fifteen, come in here.”

Had the medic passed his reading test? Late that afternoon, the MEPS staff deemed me worthy to join the ranks. Raising our right hands, we all took the Oath of Allegiance. Those of us that were flight school wannabes were escorted to a waiting cab that was to take us to the airport. There were antiwar protesters blocking the front door, so we went out the back, through an abandoned storefront. Instead of bands playing as we went off to combat as our grandfathers had experienced, we were sneaking out the back door.

The flight to Fort Worth, Texas, was an all-night affair as it was the last flight out of Portland that night. The flight was half-full. A flash-in-the-pan rock band was on board, corralling the attention of the stewardess for the whole flight. Two future soldiers were of no interest to her, and we didn’t even look like soldiers yet.

Changing planes in Fort Worth, we boarded a prop airplane from Trans-Texas Airways along with thirteen other guys heading to Fort Polk, Louisiana. I had some flight training and held a private pilot’s license, so I noticed little things, like the fuel cap dangling from a chain on the wing. Small detail. I notified the stewardess, who informed someone in the cockpit. The pilot wasn’t happy, stopping the plane on the taxiway, getting out and placing the cap in position. I should have paid more attention to Fort Worth, as I would be returning here after basic training.

Arriving in Fort Polk, Louisiana, the plane taxied to a shed that appeared to be left over from World War II. Everyone deplaned and went inside to be greeted by military police, MPs. The MPs directed us to empty our shaving kits, as that was all we were allowed to bring besides the clothes on our backs. That was good because that was all I owned anyway. We were asked if we were carrying any contraband, such as legal or illegal drugs, knives, guns, or straight razors. We were then directed to turn our pockets inside out. Some contraband was found on a couple of individuals, and their Army experience started very badly. Once cleared, we were loaded on a bus and taken to the reception station, where we were greeted by a noncommissioned officer, a staff sergeant.

The staff sergeant was polite, almost fatherly. No screaming, no yelling. He took us on a tour of the reception station. The reception station was all wooden buildings that appeared to have been left over from World War II. In fact, Fort Polk was left over from World War II and had only been reopened in 1966 during the buildup for the Vietnam Conflict. Between World War II and 1966, the post had been in “caretaker” status, being used only for National Guard and Army Reserve training on weekends and in summer. No active Army forces had been stationed there, so most of the post was in disrepair.

The barracks were two-story wooden buildings with open sleeping bays for twenty men on each level. They had been upgraded with a gas furnace instead of a coal furnace. Each level had a bathroom with four showerheads, ten toilets, and ten sinks. The toilets had no dividers between the seats, so guys could have conversations while seated. How convenient!

The staff sergeant directed us to the mess hall as none of us had eaten since we’d started for Fort Polk. After breakfast, he returned us to one of the barracks buildings, assigned each of us a bunk, for which we drew bedding, and told us to wait, and wait, and wait. Throughout the day, new people arrived and went through a similar procedure.

The next five days were filled with in-processing procedures. Haircuts were the very first thing. For the cost of one dollar, everyone received their first GI haircut. It took the barber about twenty seconds to deliver this haircut, which was like shearing sheep. All individual identity was lost after this as everyone was a skinhead when they got out of the chair. Then off to draw uniforms. First, we were instructed to strip naked.

“If the Army wants you to have something, the Army will issue it to you,” bellowed the staff sergeant. As we walked down a long row of clothing, butt naked, civilians began to dress us. The first item they handed me was a duffel bag.

“What’s your waist size?” a civilian clerk asked.

“Ah, thirty-two, sir,” I stuttered.

“Here’s size thirty. You’re going to drop a few pounds in the next weeks,” he replied while handing me four pair of boxer shorts. “Put one pair on and three in the duffel bag,” he directed. “Next! What’s your waist size?” he asked the next guy. By the time you reached the end of the line, you were fully clothed and had a duffel bag of clothing.

The afternoon was another exercise in rapidly moving two hundred bodies through another process: immunizations. We formed a single line. On each side stood two medics, with one holding what appeared to be an air gun. “Shirts off!” came the command. “Forward march.” The first medic on each side wiped my shoulder with an alcohol pad, then the second placed the air gun on my shoulder and fired. No needles required, and it hurt like hell. Well, two shots wasn’t so bad. Oh no, it was every afternoon for four days! The whole process took about thirty minutes, and then it was off to a classroom for more testing. I guess they didn’t trust the tests we’d taken before we joined, so we took the same tests all over again.

Finally, the day came when we were assembled on the street with our duffle bags and prepared to move to the appropriate training company. The renowned Army two-and-a-half-ton trucks arrived and were positioned for us to load. As our names were called, we were told to load the trucks. Since my last name began with a C, I was one of the first to climb up on the back of the truck and moved to the front. As more men climbed in, the front filled up. At last, the final sardine was packed in, and the back flap of the truck’s canvas cover was closed so we couldn’t see where we were being taken. It was so dark in there I couldn’t see the guy standing next to me either. The ride was short. The driver deliberately screeched to a halt at every stop sign and hit every pothole, just so we could enjoy the experience of our first ride in the back of the truck. Eventually, the truck stopped and the back flap opened.

“Get out of my truck, you maggots! Move, move, move! Here, let me help you, maggot!” yelled a voice surrounded by a blinding outside light.

“Ahhh!” came a reply, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground, then another, and another in rapid succession. A groping arm reached into the truck, grabbing for me.

“What are you waiting for, Princess? I said get out of my truck!” In seconds, I was out of the truck and running for dear life with a drill sergeant right on my ass.

“Now get in formation on the cables!” bellowed another drill sergeant. How many drill sergeants did they have in this company? They were everywhere; almost one drill sergeant per trainee, it seemed. We were all trainees now. Running down the length of the street were four steel cables staked to the ground. We were directed to line up, toes only touching the cables and duffel bags in front of us. Some of the trainees managed to screw up these simple orders.

“You people don’t want to listen and follow instructions? Fine! Every last one of you mothers drop and give me fifty!” Being from a military family, I knew this meant we all had to get into a front leaning position and push out fifty pushups. However, some trainees didn’t understand and moved too slow for the drill sergeant.

“Recover!

What are you doing, maggots? Who told you to wipe your hands off? Why are you not at the position of attention? Now, together, on my command, you will take the front leaning rest position, and together we will do our fifty pushups. And don’t let me see one of you out of step. Now, drop!”

Down we went. “On my command. One, two, three—recover! Why can’t you keep up? Yeah, you, Little Sister!” There was no telling who the offender was because the drill sergeant was looking at everyone. Everyone was looking straight ahead as they should be when in the position of attention. Well, not everyone.

Suddenly a drill sergeant appeared in front of a trainee who had been looking at the drill sergeant leading this exercise. “Why are you looking at Sergeant Spruce? Do you want to make out with Drill Sergeant Spruce? Is he that pretty you want to stare at him? You don’t need to see him to hear him! Do you listen with your eyes? Are you some kind of freak?”

The exercise and tirade went on for a good hour. I doubt anyone completed fifty pushups, but we were all smoked and our arms were shaking by the end of the ordeal. We were told to pick up the contents of our duffel bags, which had been dumped on the ground for contraband inspection. A drill sergeant ordered us to our assigned barracks. As he called out names, he assigned each trainee a bunk, a wall locker and a footlocker. We were told to stand next to our footlockers at parade rest. After everyone was assigned a place, three other drill sergeants strolled into the barracks. One was a staff sergeant, the other two being just sergeants—Staff Sergeant Van B. Ford, assisted by Sergeant Bradshaw from Texas and Sergeant Thomas from Ohio.

Staff Sergeant Van B. Ford was a short black man with a calm voice. He simply told his soldiers what he expected and never raised his voice. His sentences usually followed a “Normally this, however that” pattern. “Normally these barracks are spotless. However, with you people here, it’s a pig sty.”

“When I call yo’ name, sound off,” he said as he looked at a clipboard. “I need a platoon guide and four squad leaders. Are any of you trainees prior service?” he asked. One trainee raised his hand. “What’s yo’ name, trainee?”

“Crawford, Drill Sergeant,” he responded.

“Crawford, Crawford.” He consulted his clipboard. “Oh yeah, you was Navy. What you joining the Army for anyway?”

“To go to flight school, Drill Sergeant,” Crawford said.

“Flight school! You got to get through basic training before you can fly. You the platoon guide now. Anyone had ROTC training?” Staff Sergeant Ford looked around the room, and two other trainees raised their hands. Addressing the closest, he declared,

“You going to be first squad leader. What’s yo’ name?”

“Hanna, Drill Sergeant.”

“Where you from, Hanna?”

“Puerto Rico, Drill Sergeant.”

“Puerto Rico my ass, Hanna. With that blond hair, blue eyes and lily-white skin, you can’t be from Puerto Rico. Sergeant Lopez is from Puerto Rico, but not you. What’s yo’ daddy do?”

“Dad is an engineer for a company there, and we moved there when I was born. Been there ever since.”

Looking at the other trainee, Drill Sergeant Ford tagged him as the second squad leader.

“You, what’s yo’ name?” he asked, pointing at a tall, thin black soldier.

“Me?” he answered, pointing at himself. “Johnson, sir.”

“Don’t you sir me, trainee. I work for my pay. Where you from, Johnson?”

“Lickskillet, Kentucky, Drill Sergeant.” The rest of us were attempting to suppress our laughter.

“Lickskillet! What kind of place is that?”

“That’s a small place, Drill Sergeant,” Johnson answered with a thick Southern drawl. Some trainees could not suppress their laughter on that note.

“Well, in the interest of equality, you’re the second squad leader. Any military brats?” Staff Sergeant Ford asked.

I raised my hand.

“Yo’ daddy Army?” He walked up to me.

“No, Drill Sergeant. Navy, submarines,” I responded.

“Well, you is now the third squad leader. Hope he taught you something. What’s your name?”he asks.

“Cory, Dan, drill Sergeant,” I respond.

“Well, which is it? Dan Cory or Cory Dan?”he asks with some frustration.

“Dan Cory, Drill Sergeant.”

He wrote my name on his clipboard. “Why didn’t you join the Navy?”

“I want to go to flight school,” I answered.

“Another flight school wannabe! Anyone else here a wannabe flight school peeloot?” He looked around the room. Over half the guys in the room raised their hands, to include the three selected squad leaders.

“You too, Johnson?” This surprised all of us. Johnson just didn’t seem that swift.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Johnson answered.

Staff Sergeant Ford looked down and shook his head as he started laughing. Looking up finally, he said, “Let me tell y’all something. You learn real good here in basic, because over half of y’all are going to fail in that there flight school and find yourselves in the infantry, humping a rucksack in Vietnam. So, y’all learn good here. Understood!”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” the group responded.

After selecting his fourth squad leader, Staff Sergeant Ford stated, “Now when I tell y’all to fall out, y’all do so quickly and line up on yo’ four squad leaders with yo’ toes on the cables. Normally, we would go to chow now. However, I do believe y’all need some exercise, so we will be going to the Hill on the way to the mess hall. Crawford!”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” he responded.

“Crawford, when y’all get back from the mess hall, I expect you to show these ladies how to set up their wall lockers, footlockers and bunks. They did teach you that in the Navy, didn’t they?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“Now, fall out on the cables!” And we bolted out of the barracks and fell in a platoon formation.

The Hill was a hundred-yard dirt-and-gravel field with a steep slope of fifty feet at one end. We were lined up by squad in four ranks of ten. On command, we had to crawl to the top of the slope. When I reached the top, my hands, knees and elbows were raw. For the next three days, we revisited the Hill each evening before chow. On the third day, I was really feeling sorry for myself. Suddenly, I had a come to Jesus moment. Hey, dumbass, you volunteered to be here. You weren’t drafted, you quit college and “volunteered” for this shit, so stop your crying and suck it up!

And I did. Suddenly that crawl wasn’t so bad. In fact, I found myself enjoying it. I picked up my pace and reached the top in record time, whereupon I became a damn cheerleader, screaming words of encouragement to my fellow soldiers. If I’d had pompoms, I would have used them, I was so fired up. Next thing I knew, everyone who had made it to the top was yelling words of encouragement to the guys still coming up. That was the last time we crawled the Hill.

The mess hall entry entailed an interesting exercise as they moved two hundred trainees through there for breakfast and dinner. Lunch was usually served wherever we were training. We lined up by platoons outside the mess hall on the cables. Never missing an opportunity to conduct physical training, the drill sergeants would have us doing pushups, flutter kicks or sit-ups until it was our turn to enter. However, before entering, one had to negotiate the overhead bars and then do six pull-ups. Those who did not accomplish these tasks received extra training from the drill sergeant supervising the chow line.

As we entered the mess hall, we grabbed eating utensils and a cafeteria tray that was also our dinner plate and moved along the cafeteria line. The mess hall dining area was about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide with a center aisle. Tables with bench seats for ten trainees on each side of the table radiated from the center to the walls. We didn’t talk; we just moved, and other trainees that were on kitchen police put food on our trays. No one cared if the food was appetizing or eaten; that was up to the recipient.

We quickly found a seat and started to eat. A drill sergeant hovered around the room, and if we took longer than two minutes to consume our food, we were told to get out. “Eat fast and haul ass!” was a common command. We didn’t even consider having a cup of coffee or a cigarette after eating. Generally, we started eating before we sat down and kept shoveling food in as we moved out the back door.

After dinner that first night, it was back to the barracks to prepare our footlockers and living area.

Crawford took charge and coached everyone through how to set up our footlockers so that uniformity was established. The wooden footlockers had a top shelf and a lower area. In the lower area, he demonstrated that every pair of boxer shorts and T-shirt should be rolled instead of folded and each should be nine inches in length. He explained that this way, rolled items did not wrinkle as folded items did, and rolled items fit better in duffle bags, with less wasted space. Long johns went into the bottom as well and were also rolled. The top shelf, which was removable to expose the bottom, was first lined with a towel, neatly folded to fit snugly in the top. On the left side, in precise positions, went our razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap dish with an unused bar of soap. On the other side went socks, also rolled, and an extra towel. Everyone laid their footlockers out the same. Then he explained that we would not touch anything on the top shelf, ever, if we wanted to stay on the good side of Staff Sergeant Ford.

“Look, we have to play the game, and the game is discipline. The quicker we learn that, the better off we’ll be. Setting up uniform displays, footlockers and wall lockers will get the drill sergeants off our backs much quicker. The first chance we have to go to the PX, you buy a new toothbrush, razor, shaving cream and toothpaste, and you put it in a shaving kit in the top of your wall locker. That’s the one safe place we are authorized that the drill sergeants won’t look into or have a shit fit about unless we give them a reason. Also, get a second towel—no, make that two more towels, with a hanger to hang one in your wall lockers with one in your butt pack. You’re going to need it in the field. Now let me show you how to lay out the wall lockers.” I was thinking that if Mother had seen my room this squared away, she would have been very happy.

He moved over to his wall locker, and we all followed as he had our undivided attention. “On the top shelf, place your additional shaving kit in the back, right side. Hang each of your fatigues with the left sleeve out so they’re all facing the same way. The hanger hook should be facing the rear of the locker. Your low-quarter shoes go on the lower left side with your extra pair of boots on the right side, toes back an inch from the front. Change your boots every day, so each night you will be shining boots. Change your socks each day, and every day at noon. Might want to buy extra socks when you get a chance. Any questions?”

“Where do we put our laundry bags?” asked another trainee.

“Laundry bags are tied to the top rung at the foot of the bed, centered. Let me show you.” And he proceeded to demonstrate how to tie it. For a guy that was prior service Navy, Crawford sure knew a lot about how to set up an Army barracks.

“What about our TA-50 field gear?” came the next question.

“Everyone get your field gear and meet back here in the bay, and I’ll show you how to set it up. They were probably going to do that tomorrow, but let’s get it done tonight.” Once everyone was assembled with their equipment, Crawford walked us through how to put our field gear together. First, the web belts were adjusted to fit each other; then came the positioning of the suspenders, followed by the positioning of two ammo pouches. Next was our butt packs, centered on our backs. Canteen on left hip was next, followed by first aid pouch on the left shoulder.

“When you’re in the barracks, hang your field gear on the top left side of the bunk if you sleep on top and top right side if you sleep on the bottom, aisle side. Okay, now let’s get to putting everything in its place.”

Everyone moved to their respective areas and commenced putting things away, as well as making beds. Thank goodness we’d learned at the reception station how to make beds. Lights out was at 2200 hours, and most of us were quickly asleep as our bodies were sleep-deprived.

At 0500 hours every morning for the first week, the barracks exploded, with Staff Sergeant Van B. Ford turning on lights and kicking over garbage cans. Ten minutes later, everyone was outside doing pushups and flutter kicks, running, and low-crawling. Breaks included fireman carry races with one trainee being carried on the back of another trainee over a fifty-yard racecourse. An hour later, we were off to the mess hall for breakfast and back to the barracks to get our stuff for training. Somewhere in there, we were expected to brush our teeth, wash and make our beds. As time went on, we soon learned to shower the night before, make our beds as tight as possible so it was easy to make them up in the morning, and get up around 0430 hours to be ready when Staff Sergeant Ford came through the door.

After the first week, he came in at 0500 hours and found every one of us standing next to our footlockers, dressed, beds made and ready for training. “Normally, I have to wake dumbass trainees up for all eight weeks of training. However, y’all are a little smarter than the average trainees.” A new bond was formed with Staff Sergeant Ford. His job became much easier, resulting in our lives becoming more pleasant. We were still trainees, but we weren’t getting our butts chewed anymore. Not only were we smarter than the average trainees, but our bodies were becoming harder.

The physical training continued to be hard, but the ass chewing and intimidation subsided. We soon realized that the physical training we were doing was actually the same as the physical fitness test we would have to take at the end of our basic training. The test included low-crawling fifty feet out and back; the two-man fireman carry race; the overhead bars; run, dodge and jump; and a two-mile run. All events were for time. No one failed. At the end of our eight weeks, we were certainly different, both physically and mentally. The night before graduation, Staff Sergeant Ford was noted by the company commander as the Drill Sergeant of the Cycle for having the best platoon, which made the entire platoon really feel good about what we had done. The fact that over half the platoon would be heading to flight school also added to the good feelings. In fact, the only trainee that was supposed to be going but wasn’t was Crawford 1 . He was being held over. The next morning, Johnson, Hanna and I loaded a Greyhound bus along with thirty-seven others for our next assignment at Fort Wolters, Texas.