Excerpts

This book is my attempt to give an accurate account of my time in the Army from 1966 to 1969. My father joined the Navy in 1925 and again for World War II. When he heard my stories, he told me that nothing had changed. My conversations with recent veterans tell me that nothing much has changed since. I have to admit that I was no prize myself.

It has been a mixed blessing that the draft ended in 1973. Social unrest has lessened. Middle class youths are now free to pursue education and career without threat of interruption. The poor never had much to interrupt and the rich have always been immune. We have not had to resolve the issue of whether equality for women includes eligibility for the draft. The Army has benefited by having members less inclined to dissent and more easily molded to its way of thinking. The percentage of veterans in the civilian population has declined sharply. For lack of first-hand experience, most civilians have a false idea of the military created by movies, video games, parades, and advertising agencies.

“Be all that you can be” had nothing to do with my service.

The phrase “Thank you for your service” has become popular recently. Sometimes it seems like the speaker is apologizing for not having served himself. Sometimes it seems like overcompensation for the urban legend of mistreatment of soldiers in the Vietnam era. I still don’t know why it bothers me.

Mid-afternoon on a hot June day in 1966, I emerged from an alcoholic blackout to find myself walking north on lower Broadway in Manhattan. This was not a first; so, I did not break stride as I checked the time, patted my wallet, and made sure I was still carrying the travel bag I had left home with that morning. Everything was in place and there were no visible bruises. Once that was determined, the thoughts came flooding back about the mess I was in.

I was only nineteen, but life seemed to be collapsing around me – again. I did not need a transcript to know that I had flunked out of college. My attempt to run away to sea had hit a reversal that morning. Having lost my student draft deferment, I knew I was unemployable. North of City Hall, I came on a recruiting station. I thought, “This’ll solve it.” The Marines had an office at the front door where a recruiting sergeant stood in summer dress uniform: all starch and creases and not a visible drop of sweat. “Things aren’t that bad,” I thought and went past him to the Army office on the floor below.

  As Christmas approached, I decided to stay at Fort Dix for the holiday. Christmas was a Sunday and I had to be back for the flight to Chicago on Monday morning. With my usual obtuse approach, I rationalized that I was now a 19 year old, romping-stomping infantryman who no longer needed the sentiment. That was why I was in the company dayroom playing pool after dinner on Christmas Eve when the duty officer came in. He signaled me to come with him. He had received an order to produce somebody for guard duty and I was the first non-trainee he had found. There was a blizzard in progress, so I got on the appropriate gear, took a rifle, and was driven to the guard barracks.

  About eight o’clock, I was loaded on a truck with several others and dropped off at my post. For two hours, I walked laps around a Post Exchange, knee-deep in the blizzard. By the time I completed a lap, the snow had filled the tracks I had made. There was nothing in the PX; it had been closed and emptied for the holidays. Near the end of my watch I heard a rifle shot from the direction of the nearby motor pool. Soon the truck arrived with my relief. The motor pool was the next stop. People were already gathering around a body in the red-stained snow. The guard had stuck his rifle in the snow, leaned over it, reached down, and pulled the trigger.

Suddenly, I was no longer a romping-stomping anything. I wanted to be home. I got off the truck and went looking for a replacement. I finally found one, paid him a good price, and delivered him to the guard house as my replacement. I got back to my barracks, changed into civilian clothes, and headed for the post bus station to catch the last bus to Manhattan. I called my parents to let them know I was coming. The blizzard had closed the New Jersey Turnpike, so the bus took Route 1 all the way up. We got to Manhattan about five in the morning. I called home again and got on the subway. My father was waiting at the end of the line in Jamaica. The sun was just coming up when we got to the house. After dinner, it was time to go back.

  I was sitting, looking at the floor, when two shiny boots appeared. I looked up to see the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Frederick W. Best. Before I could get to my feet, he barked, “Soldier, are you doing anything?” As I came to attention, I struggled to think of a good answer. The best I could do was the truth.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then take the rest of the afternoon off and go to the pool. That’s an order. It’s too hot to just be sitting around doing nothing.”

  Colonel Best was a leader: a lap ahead of anybody else I met in the Army. He led from the front and his men would follow him anywhere. One morning, the whole battalion was rousted early and 800 groggy men formed up to listen to Best. He finished with the business at hand and then started to wind them up.

  “I was going to give you the day off.”

  “YEAH, BIG FREDDIE!” is impressive when shouted by 800 voices.

  “But I thought, I’d be pretty mad if some jerk got me up half an hour early just to tell me I had the day off! So, I changed my mind. You don’t have today off.”

  “BOOO, BIG FREDDIE!”

  “You’ve got tomorrow off!”

  “YEAH, BIG FREDDIE!”

  It might sound childish but it meant a lot to the men at the time.

  In the field, he would mix with the troops, eat from the chow line, and even share the field latrine. This was a flimsy structure consisting of a ditch, a box with a hole in it set over the ditch, and a pole structure hung with ponchos for privacy. One night, I was on guard duty when he passed me on the way to the latrine, exchanging the usual formalities. A few minutes later, I heard him bellowing. I turned to see his profile in the moonlight, a cigar between his teeth, and his pants around his ankles. Thieves had made off with the ponchos.

  Vaccinations were given every month and a roster was posted in advance telling you how many and what for. We got shots for diseases we had never heard of, even plague. We would line up in our undershirts and shuffle along. Every month, Big Freddie would enter from the back of the line, take his shirt off and leave his twin pistols on. He worked the line like he was running for office. He shook hands, slapped backs, and praised “My Polar Bears.” If he remembered a soldier’s name, you could see the man’s face light up. He would get to the front, the medic would give him a shot with a pneumatic gun, and he would pass out: hit the floor like a haddock. Every month. He had a fear of needles. There would be applause and a sense of common purpose as he was helped to his feet. The men loved him for it.