More Military Memories?

I know that, having written about some (hopefully) humorous episodes of my time in the Army, I may have given the impression that I didn’t take my enlistment seriously.

In truth, I was and am very grateful that I was able to serve, especially when and where I did. One morning just before graduation our Company First Sergeant addressed us. “Things have gotten hot in Vietnam. Whatever you may have enlisted for or been guaranteed, do not be surprised if you open your orders and find you’re to report to Travis Air Force Base for transport to Ton Son Nhut.”

What a relief when I saw I was to report to 1st Battalion Headquarters, 62nd Artillery, Scott AFB, Illinois. The battle of la Drang Valley (the climax of Mel Gibson’s We Were Soldiers) took place while I was at Scott, waiting to be assigned to Alpha Battery.

I took pride in the privilege of protecting my home from Nikita Khrushchev’s threats to bury us. I know and knew I was extremely lucky to have been stationed so close to home while some (and eventually thousands) of my peers (and betters) were suffering and dying in Vietnam.

I got to visit one Marine Sergeant cousin at the Base Hospital at Scott AFB, where many of those wounded in Vietnam stopped. Joe had gotten up in the night for a “head call” and been blown out the door of his company’s quonset hut by an enemy bomb that killed his squad in their sleep (or painfully afterward). There wasn’t a space on his back where one could lay a hand without touching a wound. I don’t know how no shrapnel hit his head. I lost high school friends there, too, including one from my neighborhood whose name was Lucky.

In 1968, during my last 6 months of active duty, I was pall bearer at eight burials of soldiers who had been killed in that war. We in the funeral detail were cursed, spat upon and threatened by friends and family of the deceased. I often heard the angry shout, “Why aren’t you dead instead of (name of friend or relative)!”

I was a lucky one — always knew it and have never forgotten it. I felt privileged whenever duty required me to spend a night (or a few) catching catnaps on the cement under the nuclear warhead of a missile that I might have been required to launch to explode over Springfield in order to protect my mother and former classmates from Krushchev’s Bear bombers. That concrete was infinitely more comfortable than a rice-paddy in Southeast Asia.

I tried to show my gratitude by learning as much as my Secret security clearance allowed about those missiles; by being a team-mate of the fastest launch crew at Alpha Battery; by eventually qualifying to be one of those who might be called on to actually flip the Launch switch.

It was a privilege to be part of teams Snapped (Short Notice Annual Practice) to fly to Biggs AFB twice to prepare and fire two missiles each time in New Mexico. Destroying those four target drones were highlights of my entire life and I’m proud to say I earned those trips..

Was I a perfect soldier? No. My hair wasn’t always as short as my superiors wanted, nor my creases as sharp. But I was a good soldier.

There was a day, though, that I failed.

Did you ever try to recall something you once memorized but drew a blank? I have always had a hard time memorizing things like math formulas, historical names and dates, or poems.

Well, this memory begins very shortly after I joined the Army. One of the first things we were shown were the General Orders pertaining to Guard Duty. I had to look them up to write this, but they were: 

“1. I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved. 2. I will obey my special orders and perform all of my duties in a military manner. 3. I will report violations of my special orders, emergencies, and anything not covered in my instructions to the commander of the relief.”

We recruits were told, “You will memorize them.” I did, but with great effort.

After I got to the missile base and received my Secret Clearance I was assigned guard duty now and then, but was never asked to recite the General Orders again — until one day . . .

I had long since been promoted to E-4 Specialist and knew everything that was required to be a Launch Crewman. I never saw General Orders posted anywhere and hadn’t thought about them at all for thirty months.

Then one day we were visited by a group from the Inspector General staff. I had stood these inspections before, but always in the role of simulated firing of missiles. I had even fired a few in New Mexico. But that day, one of my crew’s missiles was chosen to be disassembled, testing our ability to do so, so that our Assembly staff could be tested examining its internals. That meant disarming one, including removing the nuclear warhead, which was done in a special, isolated Warheading Building surrounded by an earthen berm as tall as the building itself. Even that was not new to me, except that, instead of working on the missile, I was assigned to guard the building while the warhead was inside it.

You probably guessed it. I was approached by an inspecting officer and asked, “What’s your Second General Order!”

“Sir,” I stuttered, “I will perform my duties in a military manner.”

He walked away and a few minutes later the Sergeant of the Guard came with another soldier and relieved me from that post. He recited that order as we walked to the Ready Room. Soon, my Platoon Leader took me into an empty room and asked me what happened.

“Sir,” I haven’t been asked my General Orders since basic over two years ago and they aren’t posted anywhere. I just blanked out and answered as close as I could remember.”

“Weren’t you given a printed card in basic?”

“Yes, Sir, but it was ruined when I crawled through the infiltration course in a rainstorm.”

I didn’t get punished, but my goof may have cost me a promotion later. But I was not given a replacement card, nor was a copy of those orders posted anywhere.

Why I wasn’t promoted to E-5

I got a chance for promotion to E-5 (the lowest Non-Commissioned-Officer rank) a few months before my three years of active duty ended.

The Promotion Board took place at Battalion HQ and was made up of the Sergeant Major and the First Sergeant of each Battery (Company). The questions were about details of the missiles, radars, and the odd question about general military knowledge.

I answered them all well until the Sergeant from my Battery asked, “Who in the military is allowed to salute with his left hand?”

That caught me off guard, but I answered, “A soldier who was wounded or injured in, or limiting movement of, his right arm.” Seemed logical to me.

There was no reaction from the five NCO’s facing me.

When I rejoined the other candidates I asked one from my platoon, “Okay, who can salute with his left hand?”

He said, “A Bos’un’s Mate when he pipes an officer aboard. Didn’t you get the word that Sarge was going to ask that?”

So that’s the way these promotion boards work! I could only wonder if I was accidentally overlooked or if there was a more sinister reason I was not told.

Perhaps because I had forgotten that exact General Order? Had I embarrassed my superiors? Or was it because our new Warrant Officer had told my Chief that he’d caught me writing something SUBVERSIVE? (I had been transcribing the lyrics to a song that began: “Come on all you big strong men . . .”) No, that hadn’t gone beyond my section.

Well, the last few months of my active duty passed, bringing mixed emotions. Things in Vietnam had only escalated in those three years and I was happy to be separating from the Army. Some of my closest friends were transferred away and more returned to civilian life as veterans. I had decided I wouldn’t stay in the St. Louis area. I was bound for the Promised Land — at least the land I had promised myself — Southern California.

Nearing my last day of wearing the uniform, I was called into the Captain’s office for what normally would have been “Thanks for your service, but are you sure I can’t talk you into re-enlisting?” But our new C.O. was from Belleville, Illinois. When he saw that I had graduated from Collinsville High School we spent a while discussing our schools’ old rivalries on the gridiron and under the hoops.

As I left the C.O.’s office the First Sergeant asked me if I was ready to re-enlist — the same man who didn’t share the trick question with me that may have cost me a raise. 

I said, “No, First Sergeant, I have other plans.”

He said, “Now where do you think you’ll get a career with better benefits than 20 years in the Army?”

The devil in my subconscious reminded me of visiting Juarez, Mexico, after firing missiles in New Mexico, and what some of the other guys had done while there. I smiled at him and lied, “I’d rather get a job in a Juarez *ho** house.”

His mouth fell open and I walked out with a smile on my face.

*

My brother, Sunny, never seemed to forget anything. He emphatically denied having total recall, but he was unbeatable playing Trivial Pursuit and he never failed to remember anything I asked him about.

When I was  a kid, before he entered the Army, or after he returned, he could recite long, funny poems that he had learned more than a decade earlier. I, on the other hand, can only remember the first few lines of The Midnight Ride Of Paul Revere, which is one of my favorite poems.

People ask me how I can remember so many details of the things I write about. Well, I write about things or events that I did or witnessed, or that strongly impressed me, like Great-uncle Bill’s story.