Post by Ozarks Tom on Feb 25, 2021 21:48:18 GMT
One thing I noticed I missed in Pt1 was the fact that I enlisted on April Fool's Day, a certain amount of irony there I obviously missed at the time.
At the Ft Wood induction station we were given several tests, one of which was a poorly disguised IQ test. After taking it, and a couple more tests that morning they called out my name to go into an office and talk to the officer there. With barely looking up, but looking at some papers on his desk he said "Have you considered going to OCS (Officers Candidate School)? Sitting there I had no idea what to say, so I asked "the army has 17 year old officers?" He finally looked up and said "no, you can go."
Another test was being able to copy Morse Code. Not that I'd ever copied code before, but they only used three letters for the test, and maybe because I played in bands for many years it was easy to identify the letters. Anyway I pretty much aced the test. Combining that with the fact that I could type cinched my assignment after basic training to radio teletype school. I should explain that my typing skills were purposely acquired. You see, as a junior in high school I was the only boy in typing class, and I'm seriously surprised I learned how to type. I tried getting into Home-Ec, but the rules were way different back then, no boys allowed.
Basic training of course was misery from day one. Our platoon drill sergeant was a fat alcoholic who'd chosen the fake name of Savage. Back then drill sergeants used fake names in fear of being tracked down off base apparently. During morning exercises he'd watch, and when we'd go for the everyday mile run he'd sit on a barracks steps until we got back. But, he did have a sense of humor, he made me a squad leader with a pin-on arm band with corporal stripes.
The obstacle course consisted of about 75 yards of belly-crawling with a rifle and pack under barbed wire, over logs, between bunkers where explosives were set off, while machine guns and the one end fired over your heads. By chance I'd talked to a guy from another training company who'd gone through it a week before, so I went to the PX and bought a box of Kotex. I wrapped them on my knees and elbows under my fatigues, and crawled that course in what had to be near record time. My pants and shirt were worse for wear, but my knees and elbows were unscathed, while everyone else was nursing scrapes and abrasions for week. It was rumored the locals near Ft Wood made their living sharpening rocks for the course.
Graduating from Basic Training about 50 of us pooled some money and hired a bus to take us to Minneapolis. Minnesota had laws against fireworks, while Missouri had fireworks stands seemingly everywhere. We got the bus driver to stop at a stand where we pretty much bought it out. When I got back to Mankato I sold those fireworks for five times what I'd paid. I've always been an entrepreneur.
Radio school was at Ft Gordon GA just outside Augusta. By then it was the middle of summer, and for a Minnesota boy pure misery. Mornings had three hours of sitting in an unairconditioned classroom with hard plastic headphones learning code. That went on for two months. To pass radio school you first had to pass code, which meant sending and receiving at 15 words per minute. The last week I was absolutely stuck on 13 wpm, and couldn't for the life of me get any faster receiving. If you flunked out of radio school you'd be sent to one of two other schools, infantry or lineman. In other words, hell. The night before the final test I was more than a little depressed, and went to town with some guys where I was grossly over-served. The next morning I wasn't hungover, I was still drunk. Sat for the test and copied 18 wpm!!
One other thing about my time in radio school. Apparently someone had noticed my rather loud and carrying voice, and I was assigned to call cadence for our platoon when marching to and from the school morning and afternoons. We were the 2nd platoon, and it was noticed after the second day the 1st platoon was marching to my cadence and not their platoon's caller. There were three platoons in our company, so they moved me to walking beside the last platoon and marching the whole company. My wife, and our neighbors a quarter mile away can attest to the nature of my voice.
Upon graduating radio school the company was assembled to be assigned to our regular units. They had the list alphabetically. I'm Thomas W., and there was a black guy from Detroit with the same surname, but was Thomas J. When the first sergeant got to our letter he called out XXXXXXX, Thomas J, APO xxxxx, which turned out to be embassy duty, Rome. Then he called out XXXXXXXX Thomas W, APO xxxxx DMZ Korea!! Damn, why couldn't my grandfather's name been Al?! Anyway, that called for another drunken excursion to town where I by pure chance ran across a guy who worked in the message center, where they processed all the orders. For a mere $20 he promised to pull my security clearance from my packet, and when a levy came down for stateside duty he'd put it back. Six weeks later I was assigned to the 11th Air Assault Division at Ft Benning GA, just outside Columbus. Little did I know at the time that was the worst $20 I'd ever spend.
On the first day's introduction to the 11th Air Assault it was explained we were an experimental unit, the first to use helicopters to transport and tactical maneuvers. It was also explained that everyone in the division would learn to rappel from a helicopter. Oh great, this was just the first example of that wasted money. That evening the mess hall was abuzz with news that a D ring had pulled out of a helicopter floor and three guys on ropes pancaked each other from 140 feet. I learned, but I didn't like it.
A few amusing things stand out from my time a Ft Benning. One was when we were on a war game exercise in South Carolina, camped in a big pine forest. Our platoon sergeant got out of his tent about midnight to relieve himself, and apparently peed right on a rattlesnake. Well, I'd just gotten off radio shift at division HQ and was walking back to my tent when I heard the shouting. The loudest voice of course was from the platoon sergeant demanding someone do something, the other two voices were the assistant platoon sergeant and the mess sergeant arguing over who was going to suck the poison out of the bite. I said "damn, if you guys ever paid attention in any of those med classes you'd know not to go cutting and sucking, put a torniquete on above the bite and get him to the med station."
A little after a year at Ft Benning we had a big ceremony on the base parade field, where our colors (flag and shoulder patches) were changed over to the 1st Cavalry Division Air Mobile. That next week we were told that in 6 weeks were to get on ships bound for Vietnam, wherever the hell that was. In those days all the geography books still called it French Indo-China. Of course packing up our radio gear and jeeps was first on the agenda, then if you had any leave time accrued you could take it. I had two weeks leave accrued, but the first sergeant cut me back to one week. Oh boy was I mad. It was a Saturday morning when I stormed into the platoon office and demanded the other week. He said no, one week was it. Then I said something I've been known for all my life - something stupid. I said "if you didn't have those stripes on I'd whip your ass!" Ever seen shirt buttons fly all the way across the room? He was a big guy from North Carolina, red headed, and obviously short tempered. Yeah, I did my best, but he did one hell of a job on me.
My radio team had been assigned to the 3rd Brigade for a long time, and I'd made several friends there. Only one problem, if I was to continue to stay assigned I'd have to be Airborne like the rest of the Brigade. Since everyone was in a hurry to ship out, they cut the Airborne school to four days instead of the usual four weeks. I looked at it this way, if you're making $122 per month, and they offer you another $55 per month to jump out of airplanes, and beer at the EM Club was $.50ea, that's 110 beers per month! You're seeing the pattern here, aren't you?
Onto the ship, the USMS (merchant ship) Alexander M Patch. A relic Liberty ship from WWII. In typical army logic, since we were heading for the Far East, we needed to leave from the East Coast. Boarded in Savannah, down through the Panama Canal, up to Long Beach, then over to Vietnam. 28 days on a ship that should have been scrapped the year I was born. During the voyage I learned an easy dodge from being assigned to menial duties. I'd wander from hold to hold with a clipboard, find a card game and sit in. If someone with authority came through I'd get up and start counting burned out light bulbs. In the army, if you look like you're doing something, you're left alone no questions asked. When we'd crossed into international waters cigarettes were 11 cent per pack. That's when a few merchant marines went to the ship store and bought every cigarette in the place, offering to sell them for twenty five cents a pack. My battalion commander, Major Carey, found the head merchant marines and explained there were probably a thousand men on the ship that smoked, and inquired as to how far he and his guys could swim. The cigarettes went back to the ship's store.
We hit a typhoon in the South China Sea, and the ship heeled over on its side far enough that the top rail on the far side was in the water. I've never been sea sick, but oh boy were a lot of other guys. Holding onto a heavy rope strung down the deck I made it to the mess hall, nearly the first there. Got my food, and bracing myself from going crashing across the slanted floor got to a table in the back. From there I watched the fun. Someone spilled their tray, and after that everyone trying to get past there would go sliding. In about 10 minutes they closed the mess hall and people were crawling out on their hands and knees.
Arriving at Qui Nohn harbor we got another surprise. After spending miserable mornings in the Georgia heat learning to climb cargo nets with weapons and full packs for getting off the ship like done in WWII, they hoisted an aluminum staircase over the side and we walked down into the landing craft. Getting to shore, scared as hell, hey, were heading into a war zone, they dropped the ramp on the landing craft to reveal a dozen 5 ton trucks from the 101st Airborne with their drivers lounging around with no weapons or even steel pots. What the hell?? Yeah, I felt a little stupid.
I'll skip the fun I had in-country, except to say that overall I had a pretty good war except for the "Dear John" letter from my fiance. Got promoted to sergeant, got a purple heart for a very minor wound. If I told you where the wound was you'd know which way I was running at the time, so we'll just skip that. Don't ask, don't tell.
Mustered out at the army station in Oakland. On the trip to the San Francisco airport in a big green army bus a bunch of anti-war protesters/hippies decided to stop freeway traffic and harangue us. The driver opened both doors and shouted "have at 'em boys!" Man, those were some fast hippies, we couldn't catch even one.
All that, and I still wasn't old enough to buy a drink at the airport.
