Infantry School: A Soldier's Journal

Part I: First Days

Chapter One

Introduction

MOST PEOPLE DON'T know any more about the Army than what they read in Beetle Bailey© comics. I didn't before I joined it. My father never served. My brother was in the National Guard during the period between Korea and Vietnam, but he was six years older and a mystery to me. I had uncles and cousins who served in World War I and II, but very little contact with them. Thus, I marched off to war with no idea of the trials awaiting me.

Most people have no idea. According to the United States Department of Veteran Affairs there are something less than 23 million living veterans today. That's about 7.5% of the U.S. Population. Thus it may be said - paraphrasing Winston Churchill - never have so many known so little of what so few have done for them. If only a small number of the remaining population have any interest in knowing, this book will be worthwhile.

I created this journal of my service as a member of the Army so that you may experience it for yourself. Remember that reality may be perceived differently by individuals. Our emotional responses to situations are different than many others in the same situations. Still, it should give you an accurate idea of what it looked and felt like.

The bulk of this book appeared as blog postings from March through May of 2012. I have added material that occurred to me after completing the blog posts.

Each increment appears as a short story. The sum of them memorializes the year that I spent in training to be an infantry officer, beginning when I was inducted on March 3, 1966, until the date I was commissioned as a second lieutenant, February 10, 1967. I have arranged the stories to present some semblance of continuity, and edited them to correct most of the grammatical errors and provide them with a common narrative thread.

I served during the Vietnam War era, and some of the information will be dated. The modern Army is an all volunteer force. I served alongside many draftees. Contrary to popular belief, some two-thirds of us were volunteers whereas, during World War II, a much more popular war, two-thirds were drafted. Interesting, isn't it? Now, some will argue that we only volunteered to avoid being drafted and placed in harm's way. Those people assume that the preponderance of volunteers chose non-combat roles. The truth is that you could choose whatever you wanted, but you were assigned according to the needs of the service.

Inasmuch as I was surrounded in training by recruits and draftees who were much younger than I, my perceptions of the Army and the training experience probably will be slightly different than theirs. It's only natural. However, we experienced the same physical, emotional, and intellectual challenges. Any disagreements they may have with my narrative will be based on differing points of view only. The facts are what they are.

The training I received to become an infantryman and an officer was valuable in helping me write my first novel, Rebels on the Mountain. It provided me with the knowledge and experience to critically examine source material that I could find concerning Fidel Castro and his revolution, most of which was propaganda fed to the world to aggrandize Castro and give his reign an air of legitimacy. Thus, it should not come as a surprise when I wander off track in this narrative and speculate on how I applied this knowledge in writing my novel.

The vast majority of Castro's Fidelistas were illiterate peasants from the Sierra Madras Mountains that had harbored Cuban outcasts and outlaws for many centuries. Unlike Americans at war, they left few written personal records, letters, or diaries to help me write Rebels on the Mountain. Furthermore, the records left to us by the leaders of the revolution, including Castro and Guevara, are self-serving propaganda of dubious historical accuracy. Thus, I had to rely on common sense as well as my infantry training and experience to deduce what might have happened during the Cuban Revolution that brought Fidel to power.

The Cuban Army had been armed and trained by the same people who trained me, the United States Army. Most of their officers would have been trained at the School of the Americas which shared facilities with the Infantry Officer Candidate School that I attended at Fort Benning, Georgia. I remember seeing many foreign nationals wearing a variety of uniforms as I went to classes there.

Fidel and his rebels had been trained in weapons and tactics by another Cuban they found living in Mexico, Alberto Bayo. Born in Cuba and educated in the United States and Spain, Bayo had been a leader of the failed Loyalists in the Spanish Civil War. He then emigrated to Mexico where he operated a furniture factory and instructed at a military academy in Guadalajara. Most of the Fidelistas he trained were killed on landing in Cuba after their harrowing voyage on the cabin cruiser Granma. Thus, the surviving Fidelistas had to train the peasants recruited by Celia Sanchez before they could be trusted to engage in battle with President Batista's forces. Although many of these peasants had engaged in guerrilla actions with Cuba's Rural Guards, they had no training or experience fighting as organized fire teams, squads, or platoons.

I suspect that their reactions to their training were not significantly different than mine. Men are boys everywhere. They would have grumbled at the physical exercises designed to build their strength and endurance. They would have bridled at the discipline and complained about everything, especially the food. They would have made games at every opportunity, creating impromptu competitions to show off their prowess and skills. I know because that is what we did in Basic Combat Training.

This journal is limited to my first year in the Army, during which time I became an infantryman and then an officer. I am now working on a second journal relating my experiences in the war in Vietnam. The purpose of the second book will be much the same as this journal, to provide readers with a fair, though biased view of my experiences. Biased? What doest that mean? Sorry 'bout that. You'll have to wait and see.

Finally, let me warn you that crude (not mature, just crude) language will be found within these pages. I have used the mundane convention of inserting asterisks to mitigate the appearance of cursing, but only a food would not be able to interpret them. Anyone wishing to experience life in the Army must expect it. Such language is an integral part of it. If you are deeply offended by such terms as Sh*t-on-a-Shingle (creamed beef on toast), Unbe-f**king-lievable (an emphatic form of unbelievable), and Rear Echelon Mother F**ker (those who serve in the rear with the gear), should not read this book. However, inasmuch as you've just read them, there is nothing left to shock you.



Chapter Two

Recruitment

THERE I STOOD with my right hand raised. A U.S. Army officer administered the oath of enlistment. What was I doing? I grew up on the Chesapeake Bay as a sailor. The Navy was the logical choice for me, wasn't it? Well, I tried.

I graduated from law school in 1965, at the beginning of the build up of U.S. Involvement in Vietnam. I went immediately to the local Navy Recruiting Office and applied for Officer Candidate School. Where were they going to find a better applicant? I was a college graduate. A sailor. A champion navigator. A Coast Guard licensed operator of vessels carrying paying passengers. Piloting, seamanship, and small boat handling were in my blood.

I had dreams of becoming a member of what would later be known as the Brown Water Navy, small boats delivering soldiers and supplies to the combat operations, patrolling the backwaters of Vietnam, and interdicting Viet Cong supply lines and channels of communication. Who was better suited for that job?

Also, I reasoned that if I were going to war, I would rather fight in an environment where I was master. What did I know about jungles?

The Navy loved everything about me except for my weight. Yes, I've struggled with my weight all my life. I have the upper body of a man about six and a half feet tall atop short legs. Although I am 5'8 tall, my inseam is the same as my 4'11 wife. Seriously, people who meet me are surprised that I don't tower over them when I stand up.

Come back after you get down to 175 pounds, they said. I did. I went to a doctor who was dispensing some miracle medicine and shed the excess weight in just three months. The doctor was sent to jail. The Navy recruiter sent me to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C., for my pre-induction physical exam.

I was working as a Post Entitlement Adjudicator (don't you love that title?) at Social Security in Woodlawn, Maryland at the time, and Washington was just forty minutes down the road. Thus, it was not a problem when the recruiter called and asked if I could return to Walter Reed for another x-ray. It wasn't even a problem the second or third time he called to ask. I became worried at the fourth request. Is something wrong? The recruiter wasn't sure.

After some checking around, the recruiter learned that I had stepped into the middle of a dispute between a senior Navy doctor and the radiology department at Walter Reed. He was using my case as a lever to get them to produce better images. Their feud delayed my application for several months.

Meanwhile, I received a notice from my draft board to report for a pre-induction physical into the Army. No problem. I was happy to accommodate them. I expected to be enlisted in the Navy long before I would be ordered to report for induction into the Army.

Now we know how prescient I am. Not!

My application languished with the Navy as the induction date approached. I approached the Army Recruiters to explore my options there and found them eager to enlist me for Officer Candidate School. My education and my scores on the Army Battery of Tests were outstanding. Still, I expected the Navy to come through well before I was forced to sign up with the Army.

My draft notice came and I was ordered to report for induction at 6:00 am on Monday, March 3, 1966. (No, I didn't have to refer to any record to get that date and time.) I had to enlist prior to close of business at 5:00 pm on the preceding Friday or report as ordered. Thus, at 4:45 pm that Friday, I borrowed a telephone and made my final call to the Navy from the recruiting office at Fort Holabird, Maryland. No word. I hung up and turned to the waiting officer and was sworn in.

I went back home with orders to report to Fort Holabird at 6:00 am Monday to join the other inductees who were being transported to the Reception Center at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

The Navy called me at home at 9:00 pm that Friday night. Congratulations! the recruiter said. You're in.

No, I'm not, I replied. I'm in the Army now.

Well, you can apply for an inter-service transfer after you complete your enlistment in the Army, they suggested.

Right.



Chapter Three

Welcome

RECEPTION CENTER WAS a rude awakening to the reality that we were actually in the Army. This wasn't a dream.

I rode a train filled with other recruits and draftees from Baltimore to Columbia, South Carolina. The train originated in New York and stopped in Philadelphia and Baltimore to