

Infantry School: A Soldier's Journal

Jack Durish

Copyright 2012 by Jack Durish

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval program, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise except as may be expressly permitted by the actual copyright statutes or in writing by the publisher.

ISBN: 9781476170176

Visit Jack on his website at HTTP://www.jackdurish.com
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.

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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 collect the rest of us. I came to know a few of these. We stayed together throughout subsequent training – a couple even graduated from Officer Candidate School with me.

I had ridden on trains many times before, but never on an overnight trip. We slept in Pullman cars, four to a room, and ate in dining cars. All-in-all, it was a comfortable beginning.

We were transferred to buses in Columbia and driven to the U.S. Army Reception Center at Fort Jackson. It was not prepared for the rapid buildup in forces and we were assigned to six-man tents with wooden floors and coal-burning stoves. I shared one with four boys from West Virginia and one from Massachusetts. The Yankee sat on his bunk with a grin on his face. He finally turned to me after our first hour together and asked if I understood a word of what the others were speaking. Actually, I understood them better than him.

Fortunately, the boys from the south were used to living in a primitive environment and assumed responsibility for tending the stove. I will be forever grateful to them inasmuch as I hadn't prepared for the cold weather that awaited us in early March. Seriously. This was the "South." Wasn't it supposed to be warm? Hell no, it wasn't, and I froze wearing little more than slacks, dress socks, loafers, and a dress white shirt, under a London Fog jacket without the wool liner that came with it.

We were corralled into "mobs" and led to classrooms where our "processing" began. Rumors were rampant that the food was laced with potassium nitrate (saltpeter) to suppress our libidos. The rumor was encouraged by a corporal who wandered among us with his hands in his pockets, ordering us to keep our hands out of our pockets. (Don't ask.)

The most useful lesson I ever learned in the Army came that first morning. We were ushered into a large classroom. About two hundred school desks, the type with a writing arm attached to a wooden seat, were arranged in columns and rows with military precision. A stack of papers and two sharpened number two pencils, all bound with a rubber band, sat on each desk. A sergeant posted at the door instructed us to stand next to the nearest unoccupied desk and keep our hands in our pockets. I worried that he and the corporal outside might end up in a fight over the "hands-in-pockets" business. Most of all, he admonished us to not touch anything on the desk. Several young men picked at the papers and were instantly "jumped" for their transgression.

Finally, when the room was filled, we were told to sit at our desks and fold our hands on top without touching the papers or pencils.

"Could we take our hands out of our pockets?" someone asked, and the sergeant glared. His first troublemaker.

After repeating these instructions several times, we were told to sit.

Next came the instructions for completing the first line of the first form, a blue card at the top of the stack, just under the pencils, with our name – first name last, first name, and complete middle name – in the spaces provided. We were also instructed to continue to the second line and provide our date of birth and Social Security Number, if we had one. We were to stop there inasmuch as we were not yet considered qualified to continue to the third line that obviously awaited our home address. The instructions were repeated several times.

I was becoming angry. They were treating me like an idiot. The damn card was self-explanatory and we had many more forms to complete. This was going to be a long, boring day at this rate.

Finally, the command came to pick up a pencil and complete the first two lines only. As I complied, I felt a movement to my right. Looking there, I found my neighbor with his hand in the air. Was he kidding? I turned to my left to draw my other neighbor's attention to this idiot and found that he too had his hand in the air.

In that moment, I came to understand the Army and its ways. We were treated like idiots because we were.

Most of our meals at the Reception Center came in boxes. I decided that someone had a brother-in-law who held stock in the company that baked Twinkies. They were a staple with almost every meal. And, there was coffee, lots of it. Cowboy coffee – thick enough to float a horseshoe. I came to appreciate it.

Blessed relief came when we were finally led to the quartermaster's building and issued our first set of uniforms. It was almost like a cartoon machine where civilians were fed into one end and soldiers emerged from the other. We began by handing them a form that we had kept from the processing station and they began making stencils with our name and service number – preceded by an "RA" for recruits and "US" for draftees. By the time we were measured and passed down the line, we were handed uniforms with name tags sewn on and duffel bags stenciled with our names and service numbers before we exited the building. I found the nearest changing room and tried to put on every stitch they issued to me: four sets of fatigues, boots, wool socks, underwear, field jackets, etc. I was even tempted to climb into the duffel bag to get warm.

We placed our civvies in whatever bag we carried with us or in a cardboard box if we came with nothing. The Army paid the postage for it to be returned home together with a preprinted postcard telling our families that we had arrived safely and were having a wonderful time.

On the third day we were issued our first orders, to report to such-and-such a place forthwith for Basic Combat Training. Most of us were assigned to basic training companies right there at Fort Jackson, but loaded on buses that night to head for Fort Gordon, Georgia. Spinal meningitis broke out and they wanted us out of there before it spread through the ranks.

I liked that. Adaptable.

Surprisingly, we lost a few of our number in those first days at the Reception Center. They broke under the pressure of all that paperwork, I suppose, and received medical or "other than honorable" discharges. Seriously.


Part II: Basic Combat Training

Chapter Four

Arrival

WHEN OUR BUSES arrived at Fort Gordon, Georgia, the gate was locked. A sergeant opened it with a bolt cutter and we may have been the first Basic Trainees on the post since Korea. Although the Army's Signal School was still in operation at Fort Gordon, the barracks that we arrived at that day looked like they hadn't been used in decades. Dust and dirt coated everything and the interiors of the barracks were dimly lit by what little light could penetrate the film on the windows.

There were four two-story wooden barracks buildings assigned to our company, two on each side of a one story office – the orderly room – and a one story mess hall. Our commanding officer (CO), Captain John Sevcik and his cadre were waiting for us as we arrived. There was surprisingly little shouting as we were told to drop our baggage by the buses and gently herded into crude ranks and columns surrounding a wooden platform that we would later learn was the PT Tower – where a sergeant would stand and lead us in the Army's Daily Dozen stretching and bending and strength-building exercises.

The CO stood on the PT Tower beside a console stereo system. It was playing the Ballad of the Green Berets which was popular until the war became unpopular. The company First Sergeant and other non-commissioned officers who were to become our training platoon sergeants, stood in front of the PT Tower staring back at us. They looked as curious about us as we were about them.

One other officer, Second Lieutenant Archembalt stood to one side, smoking a pipe, attempting to look mature enough to be a leader. It didn't work. He looked every bit of twenty years of age, maybe nineteen, and his uniform and gold bars looked brand new.

The CO introduced everybody and gave us a brief overview of the program that was laid out for the next eight weeks. He assured us that he and the cadre had just one objective, to provide us with the very best training possible. He sounded sincere enough to be believable.

We were divided alphabetically by last name, into four platoons. Thus, I found myself alongside a few other trainees who would be alongside me all the way to Infantry Officer Candidate School. We were assigned to the first platoon and introduced to Master Sergeant Dunn, our platoon sergeant, and Staff Sergeant Gore, his assistant. Strange how I can remember these people so clearly more than forty years later. They told us to grab our baggage from where we had left them next to the buses, now departed, and meet them at the first barracks building.

I recognized the buildings. They were built from the same design as the ones I had lived in at Fort Holabird while studying languages at the Army Spy School when I was a fourteen year old Sea Scout. I had to chuckle when I remembered the signs on the center posts informing us that these wooden structures would burn to the ground in one hundred eighty seconds if a fire broke out. The wood was so thin and dry, I believed them and I took a bunk on the first floor.

It's important that you understand that I was totally unprepared for all that happened during those eight weeks of Basic Combat Training. My father had avoided service during World War II and Korea, and his surviving brother, who I barely knew, was significantly older. He had served as a Dough Boy during World War I. The Army he had served in bore no resemblance to the one I found myself in. Thus, all I knew of the Army came from World War II propaganda films and documentaries as well as Beetle Bailey Comics.

My first surprise came during my first meal at the mess hall. The Mess Sergeant tolerated no nonsense whatsoever. However, I came to discover that he was determined to feed us as well as possible. Luckily, I had been cooking for more than twelve years by this time and recognized that the food was excellent. The grumblings from the other trainees surprised me until I realized that they were used to eating whatever their mothers put in front of them and that is what they expected. I, on the other hand, used table condiments judiciously to adjust flavors. The basic ingredients and cooking was just fine to me.

One thing that everyone appreciated was the plentiful supply of fresh milk. I suspect that everyone else was like me. We had grown up drinking it. Indeed, my mother frequently told me that our milkman (yes, we had milk delivered to our home in those days) wept when I left and she reduced the deliveries, and then rejoiced whenever I came home on leave.

Our first lessons on that first day came in the barracks. How to make a bunk that would pass the sergeant's critical inspection. How to sleep head to foot to help prevent the spread of infectious diseases. How to keep our areas clean. Our personal effects were divided into two groups, those that had to be displayed and those that could be locked away in our footlockers. Funny, we were issued an old fashioned razor that had to be kept scrupulously clean. It held a double edged blade and had to be disassembled to replace it. I believe it may have dated back to the Spanish-American War. We were also given a gift pack from Schick and for many of us, we began using that brand for many years thereafter.

We used the remainder of the day, well into the evening, cleaning our barracks building. Each platoon also contributed men to a work party to help clean the orderly room. By the time we went to bed that night, no one had any problem sleeping. Unfortunately for a few of us, that sleep would not be undisturbed. At least one person on each floor of each building had to be awake at all times to watch out for fires. Remember, as I mentioned before, our living quarters were real firetraps.


Chapter Five

Unprepared

I WASN'T PREPARED for the physical trials that faced me in those first days of Basic Combat Training. Indeed, as I was to learn, physical conditioning was a work in progress during the entire year in which I became an infantryman and an officer.

I had grown up playing outdoors. Baseball. Football. Little league teams didn't begin forming where I lived until I had reached high school age, so I had played in the sandlot league. We had a great one in back of my house, across a stream, and through a narrow strip of woods. I was there every day.

I also participated in Scouting. Boy Scouts. Sea Scouts. However, despite all the activity, I was a pudgy kid, a pudgy kid in pretty good condition. Then, as I worked at desk jobs to pay my way through college and law school, I lost the conditioning, but not the pudgy. By the time I was inducted into the Army, I lost the pudgy but didn't work on getting back into condition, at least not the kind of conditioning needed by an infantryman. Not to worry. A drill instructor kept his boot planted firmly in my rear end encouraging me to correct that deficiency.

It wasn't easy. I struggled to keep up on those early runs while the "youngsters" around me, mostly teenagers, romped together. However, they had their own problems to deal with. Marching, marksmanship, and discipline all came far easier to me than to them. The boys from New York had the hardest time. I guess they had spend so much time playing on fire escapes and climbing stairs to walk-up tenements, that they had little time for mental conditioning, and shooting zip guns didn't prepare them for handling high powered military weapons.

It seems that the boys from the South were the best prepared. Squirrel hunting, camping, and fishing are the perfect crucible for spawning infantrymen. It was easy to see how the Confederates stymied the Yankees during the Civil War until industrial production became a greater factor than good soldiering.

The Army's Daily Dozen - twelve strength-building and stretching exercises - were repeated every day, not only in Basic Combat Training and Advanced Infantry Training, but also at Infantry Officer Candidate School. We reached a point where we could do them in our sleep, and often did. Push ups. Sit ups. Burpees (push ups beginning and ending at the standing position). Side-straddle hops (jumping jacks). Deep knee bends. The menu is different these days, but the object is still the same.

Every exercise was done by the "count." Each motion was assigned a numbered step and we counted them off as we performed them. Most were four-counts, some were eight. But, you never said the numbers "four" or "eight." When you reached the end of the count, you shouted the number of the repetition. "One, two, three, ONE!" "One, two, three, TWO!"

For endurance, we practiced "Grass Drill." I don't know why it was called that. There was never any grass. I wish there was grass where we did it. It might have been more comfortable. There were only three basic positions: Run (on your feet, running in place), front (lying on your belly), and back (lying on your back). For example, if you were running in place and the drill instructor called "Front!" you had to drop straight to the ground landing on your belly. While on "front," the DI might call "Push Up!" and you would have to do push ups until he called the next command. It was more exhausting than anything you can imagine.

We also ran to build endurance. Running in the Army is not a track and field event. It's better described as "double-time march" or "the airborne shuffle." Not fast, just far. We double-timed far enough to make the muscles burn. In the beginning, those out of shape (like me) thought that "the burn" was a signal to stop running. The Drill Instructors (DI) quickly corrected this misconception and encouraged us to keep up with a few "good-natured" and "well-intentioned" remarks. In time we learned that "the burn" was transitory. It passed and you got your "second wind."

Calling cadence while "running" not only kept us in step, but also helped take our minds off the burning feeling in our muscles. Most cadences referenced a boy named "Jody," a 4F (draft status - unfit for duty) who was back home stealing our girlfriends. "Ain't no use in goin' back, Jody's got your girl in the sack." Too often the tale had a factual basis. Some cadences sounded like advertising to induce us to apply for Airborne and Ranger training. "I wanna be an Airborne/Ranger, I wanna live a life of danger."

Every training company was issued a snare drum and chances were there was at least one trainee who could play it. Another company near ours had a man who played the bagpipes. He had them shipped from home and we heard them daily marching to the strains of discord. Can you imagine the person who invented those things? One day he turns to his mate and says, "Let's invent some sort of musical instrument. Something that will really piss people off." Of course drums and bagpipes were reserved for quick time marches. Although, I would have loved seeing the bagpiper hugging his sack and keeping the pipes from slapping him in the face as he ran.

Then there was the obstacle course. Horizontal ladders (my nemesis). Run-dodge-jump (run around waist high barriers and jump over a pit). Rope climbing and swinging. Balance beams. Log rolls (grab a log and flip over it as it rolls away from you). Cargo net (climbing). Rope slide. A-frame (climb up one side and run down the other - the challenge was to stay on your feet when you ran down a forty-five degree slope and hit the ground).

As I mentioned, it was a cake walk for most of the teenagers in the beginning. About the time that I began getting sufficiently into condition to keep up with the youngsters, the DIs picked up the pace and even the kids were struggling to keep up. I was always struggling.

Most punishments were opportunities for more conditioning exercises. The Mess Sergeant had a particular fondness for the "Duck Walk" (walking while squatting with your hands clasped behind your head). Failure to keep up while running earned the offender more miles running. Push ups were dispensed freely for just about every other infraction: Dirty weapon, dirty uniform, "long" hair, unshaven, poorly made bed, or just on general principle.

We were never harassed. The cadre seemed genuinely interested in preparing us for combat, more specifically, preparing us to survive combat.


Chapter Six

Marching

EVERYTHING WE DID we did in formation. Every formation had its rules. I had learned most of them in the Scouts. However, I never learned just how precisely those rules could be applied, at least, not in the Scouts. Only a Drill Instructor can teach that lesson well.

Even the Army Daily Dozen exercises were performed in formation. We assembled in platoons. Each squad formed one rank of the platoon. The DI, perched on a wooden PT (Physical Training) platform commanded us, "Eyes Left!" Everyone in each rank turned their heads to the left, except for the man furthest to the left. "Count Off By Twos!" The man furthest to the left shouted "One!" The next man turned his head to face straight ahead and shouted "Two!" The next man was "One" and the next "Two." When the count off was completed, the DI commanded, "Twos, One Step To The Rear, March!" All the men who had shouted "Two," stepped back one step.

The members of the platoon were thus spread out and ready to perform the Daily Dozen exercises.

We march to classes in company formation: Each platoon in four files - one for each squad - and the platoons following each other. We ran in the same company formation.

Every man was required to walk at the Quick Step - eighty paces per minute - each taking the same length stride. Here, I was in trouble. I had to really stretch out my short legs to keep up the pace.

The DI called cadence to keep us marching at the same pace. Some were simple, "Left - Right - Left." Unfortunately, there were some boys who had a hard time remembering which was which. "No, damn it!" the DI would shout. "Your 'other' left!" Some men had to march holding a stone in their left hand to help them remember. They weren't stupid. Some simply had a hard time remembering the simplest things when under pressure.

There was an element of "pressure" in everything we did in Basic Combat Training. Of course, it was nothing compared to the pressures they expected us to experience in combat, but at least they could weed out those who might fold under pressure and get their buddies killed when confronted with "real" pressure.

We were never harassed, at least not to the degree portrayed in the movies or to the degree practiced in the Marine Corps. Marines are expected to perform under greater pressures than most ordinary infantrymen. They are the shock troops that lead the way, to break the will of a well-entrenched enemy. Infantrymen are expected to simply kill the enemy and destroy their will and their ability to fight through the application of unrelenting pressure. Marines and infantrymen. Two different groups. Two different missions. Two different strategies. Two different philosophies.

Another thing I learned about the Marines - not in Basic Combat Training, but much later -- is that, to perform their mission, they need to follow orders reflexively and without question. For this, they were imbued with a fear-of-God of their officers. Infantrymen weren't taught to fear their officers. Indeed, there were times in combat when they would tell an officer who they didn't respect, to go to hell if they thought he was being an idiot. Indeed, "fragging" officers -- tossing a grenade into an officer's tent or foxhole - was an unfortunate method of dealing with incompetent officers in Vietnam. I never heard and cannot imagine that practice being employed by Marines.

We showed our respect for officers by saluting, and they returned that respect by returning a salute. "Hand salute!" My wife cringes whenever an actor salutes in a movie or a TV show. She is waiting for my grumble. Well, why can't they teach actors to do it properly? Upper arm level to the ground. Forearm and hand, fingers extended and joined, forming a straight line with the fingertips touching the forehead just above the eyebrow or the bill of the cap or helmet.

Writing that last sentence makes me chuckle. Our Platoon Sergeant, Master Sergeant Dunn, couldn't extend and join his fingers. His hand had been broken and the fingers had a permanent curl. Of course, no one chuckled when he recited the instructions "fingers extended and joined" while he attempted to demonstrate the proper method. We didn't need anymore pushups.

I don't know if the Fidelistas learned how to march while being trained in Mexico. I cannot find any resource describing the training that they received there. Neither can I find any mention of marching in the rebel camp on Pico Turquino as they passed on their training to the peasants recruited in Cuba by Celia Sanchez. Again, I did not expect to find diaries or letters written by mostly illiterate peasants. However, in writing about Castro's revolution, I had to make some inferences, and I assumed that marching would have found its way into their programs of instruction.

The importance of marching isn't as apparent as it once was. It's easy to see how the Romans used well-practiced formations and movements to defeat barbarians and build an empire. However, it's not so easy to see how such tactics apply to modern combat wherein individual riflemen fight from scattered positions. Still, marching is important as a tool for instilling discipline, building a sense of camaraderie, and teaching men to react unquestioningly to commands.

In my novel, Rebels on the Mountain, I supposed that the recruits would not have liked learning to march. I used that resistance to create a conflict between the recruits and the Fidelistas, one which I resolved in a manner that helped build bonds between them as compañeros. Interestingly, in my own experience, the recruits themselves asked to be trained to march.

Just after we had been issued our uniforms at the U.S. Army Reception Center, we were moving as a mob to our next processing station. A company of men, basic trainees I suppose, marched past us and men around me began asking the corporal who was leading us to call cadence. The corporal looked confused at first, then shrugged and began, "Left, right, left, right." Within a few paces we had sorted ourselves into a crude formation of ranks and files, and began marching in step. We weren't going to win any awards, but we looked like soldiers for the first time.

I believe that we simply wanted to belong or, at least, appear to belong. Although I was in my early twenties at the time, I was surrounded mostly by teenagers, and it may just be that they were responding to peer pressure, and I got caught up in it.

Marching became integral to everything we did once we began Basic Combat Training. Everything occurred in formation. There were formations to facilitate moving a large group of men from point A to point B. There were formations for exercising. I suppose you could even call a single file waiting to enter the mess hall a kind of formation.

Formations in ancient times were densely packed. Shield bearers occupied the front ranks and carried short stabbing swords to pierce enemy defenses when they were pressed up against them. Spearmen followed close behind using their long weapons to reach past the shield wall. Other shield bearers and spearmen followed in ranks behind to replace the front two when they fell in battle. Archers and javelin throwers launched their missiles from behind.

Modern warriors fight at more widely spaced intervals. Soldiers who form up into clusters invite destruction by exploding weapons. However, widely spaced warriors are more difficult to control effectively and even greater discipline is needed to keep them fighting as a cohesive team. Thus, infantry trainers begin teaching recruits ancient formations and movements to learn the discipline and cohesion of a unit, and later increase the interval as they teach them modern weapons and tactics.

Marching alone does not make an effective fighting force. Indeed, too much of it can be detrimental to combat effectiveness. Historically, garrison troops march well and fight badly. For example, as I studied the war in Korea in preparation for writing my next novel, Behind Every Mountain, I learned that the first troops rushed to Korea from American garrisons in Japan following the Communist invasion of the south, were driven back relentlessly by the enemy. Likewise, in Cuba, although the army outnumbered the rebels 40,000 to 300, they were beaten in every engagement, but they marched well in Havana.

The most extreme form of marching is the goose step. It was developed by the Prussians in the 19th Century to help keep ranks in line as they approached the enemy. Inasmuch as closely spaced ranks of goose stepping soldiers are not practical in modern warfare, it is no longer used except in ceremonial parades. It remains popular in as many as thirty nations to this day as a symbol of military discipline. It was long derided in the United States as symbolic of oppression. As George Orwell observed, "It is only used in countries where people are too scared to laugh at their military."

As I wrapped up this posting, I was amused to find that it is used today by the Cuban military.


Chapter Seven

Buddies

I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED about the fortitude of men who could march shoulder-to-shoulder into the face of withering fire without breaking ranks. The paintings of massed troops facing modern weapons, especially during the American Civil War and World War I, always send a shiver up my spine. How could they do that?

Early guns were infamously inaccurate and soldiers fired in volleys. Thousands of muskets fired simultaneously might hit a few targets if they were close enough. A person could hope to survive the misguided hail of bullets. As holes appeared in lines they were quickly filled with replacements from behind. The greatest danger came when the two armies met and clashed, and the men fought with bayonets affixed to the ends of their weapons much as ancient armies fought with spears. Only massed, disciplined forces could prevail.

As rifles replaced muskets and the minié ball replaced round shot, the odds of being killed or wounded by a shot fired at a distance increased exponentially. Still, generals sent massed formations into battle and I felt that the fortitude of these soldiers must have been raised to heroic proportions. How could they march shoulder-to-shoulder when their comrades were falling all around them? Yes, there was the fear that their own officers would kill them if they turned and ran. But, I learned there was an even greater fear that kept them rooted to the ranks. The fear of abandoning their buddies.

Even though individual riflemen in modern Armies fight from pits and behind cover, the Army must continue to instill that sense of comradeship that is needed to maintain the cohesiveness of every fighting unit. Almost everything we did in Basic Combat Training contributed to that bond.

For example, every recruit was issued one half of a tent – known as a "shelter-half." Two could button their halves together to make one complete tent. Anyone who didn't have a buddy could set up their tent half alone to make a lean-to. It was serviceable but not quite as good as a complete tent. In fact, everything we did in training was better with a buddy. The lesson wasn't lost on us. We soon figured out that we had a better chance of surviving the battlefield if we took care of our buddies and they took care of us.

There were some who just couldn't get along with the other recruits. They tried to survive training on their own. It was a strategy for failure. No one had to tell us. It became more and more apparent with every passing day of Basic Combat Training.

A forced march was the perfect demonstration of this concept. Hiking in formation while carrying forty or fifty pounds of gear in a rucksack on your back and a nineteen pound rifle slung over your shoulder gets pretty tiring after the first couple of miles, especially when you're walking on soft dirt. Army training centers had dirt roads that paralleled paved ones. These were used by tracked vehicles. The treads on tanks and armored personnel carriers would quickly tear up macadam roads, so those types of vehicles drove the dirt roads called tank trails. That's were we hiked, on the tank trails.

Recruits might survive twenty such forced marches without a problem, only to fall out of ranks unpredictably on the twenty-first. They weren't necessarily sick or suffering, it just happened. When it did, their buddies would strip off their gear and distribute among themselves. Then, one man on either side of the ailing recruit would grab an arm and prop him up until he recovered or they reached the end of the march. Those who just couldn't get along with the other recruits often found themselves abandoned along the side of the road waiting for a ride back. Sure, it was easier than marching all the way but it was a warning of what might happen on the battlefield unless they learned to go along and get along.


Chapter Eight

Babysitting

I SUPPOSE THAT one of the most difficult aspects of being a Drill Instructor (DI) is babysitting the children. Remember, most of the recruits and draftees were teenagers, some only seventeen. Most had never been away from home and family before in their lives. Most had never been required to take responsibility for themselves. Most had never prepared a meal or even made their own beds. Clean clothes "magically appeared" in their drawers and closets. All that changed overnight.

I watched the transformation from a vantage point almost seven years their senior. I had far more education than most would ever attain. Scouting, especially Sea Scouting, had given me experience in leadership and assuming a heavy mantel of responsibility - I had been given command of vessels and those who sailed on them. The U.S. Coast Guard had tested and licensed me to assume command of vessels engaged in commercial operations.

Our platoon sergeant, Master Sergeant Dunn, approached me early in Basic Combat Training, and asked if I wanted to become an acting corporal. He knew that I was headed for Officer Candidate School and expected that I might appreciate the chance to practice leading the platoon. Unfortunately, I was struggling with the physical conditioning in those early days and declined the offer. I felt that I needed to focus on just keeping up with the "youngsters" until I got into shape.

Even so, Sergeant Dunn and the assistance platoon leader, Staff Sergeant Gore, deferred to me and often sought my opinion. Their confidences sometimes made me uncomfortable, and I refused to do anything that seemed to imply that I was their "stool pigeon." My strategy must have worked since no one ever accused me or reacted to me as though they suspected me of betraying their confidences.

It was quite a turnabout for me being the "old man." I was youngest child of youngest children. Not just by a few years. My father was born at the beginning of World War I when his brother was old enough to join the Army and travel to France with General Pershing. My mother's oldest sister was a teacher in elementary school when both of my parents attended it. As a result, I was born during World War II and had cousins who fought in that war. Yes, I was really the baby of the family.

It seemed that I could never get away from being the youngest in any setting. I started school in Baltimore at the start of the January semester. When our family moved to the county where everyone started in September, my brother was moved back a half year and I was moved ahead. As a result, I graduated when I had just turned seventeen. I graduated from law school at twenty-two and tripped on my gown as I crossed the stage to get my diploma. It seemed symbolic inasmuch as I was the baby of the graduating class.

Thus, it came as a bit of a shock to find myself cast as "the old man" at twenty-three surrounded in the Army by teenaged recruits. Oh my God, I was even older than our assistant platoon leader, Staff Sergeant Gore, and the company executive officer, Lieutenant Archembalt! I suspect that this may explain why my perspective of the Army and the War in Vietnam is significantly different from others you may have been exposed to.

Two experiences illustrate the difference. One afternoon, we were told to drag our footlockers to the end of the barracks and seat ourselves around the closed circuit television. When it flickered on, we found ourselves face-to-face with a legend, one of the new Army Special Forces soldiers – a Green Beret – who proceeded to lecture us on "counterinsurgency."

I found the lecture to be interesting and well-presented. The Green Beret either understood his subject matter well or was reciting a very well-written script. When it ended, a young recruit seated next to me asked, "Where is Vietnam?"

I took him outside and began drawing maps in the sand with a stick. The rest of the platoon, including our sergeants, joined us. It was but the first of many impromptu lessons I would host to help these young soldiers grasp the conflict we were preparing for.

My second awakening as an "old man" was brought to me by the platoon sergeant.

Note: You may want to stop reading this posting here if you are easily offended by crude language.

Soldiers are famous for the use of the word "fuck." However, this young man took its use to a whole new level, one that even worried a hardened sergeant. He created neologisms – new words – by inserting "fuck" as an additional syllable with existing words: e.g., "unbe-f**king-lievable," an emphatic form of "unbelievable." He didn't do it occasionally. He strung whole sentences together using these, almost constantly.

One day Master Sergeant Dunn cornered me and asked what I thought of the young man's behavior and what he should do about it. My advice was to do nothing. Making an issue of it would only encourage him to continue "rebelling." In time, I believed he would grow tired of it and he did.

To be honest, I wasn't that far removed from adolescence myself. I was a "late-bloomer" and had only barely escaped the craziness of puberty. Indeed, my wife reminds me that she can see vestiges of it even though I'm in my sixty-ninth year. In any event, I blended pretty well with the other guys and even formed a few lasting friendships.

Age did give me one advantage. I was able to cope with the stresses of Basic Combat Training better than most. Although it never rose to the level of harassment, the training program included stressers to help prepare us for the stresses of combat or weed out those who would probably break under those stresses. It was interesting and sad at the same time to see their effects.

I remember well seeing a friend break during a long march. We were wearing steel helmets and carrying light packs. Our M-14 rifles where slung over our shoulders. We were climbing a gentle slope at the time. He and another trainee were "having words" when a fight broke out. My friend attempted to strike the man beside him with the butt of his rifle. Fortunately, we had only received rudimentary training in administering the horizontal butt stroke and he missed. All I know is that he ended up in the stockade. I lost track of him after that incident and don't know if he joined another training company after serving his time or was discharged.

Most trainees who failed to complete the course were issued discharges for medical reasons or other than honorable service. Neither were good for a person's future prospects in civilian life. However, both were far better than a Dishonorable Discharge. That mark was almost as serious as a criminal record as a felon.

Those who served honorably and survived usually came back as better men or, at the very least, matured men. I can admit that it matured me. Not completely. (See my wife's testimony mentioned above.) Training taught them to take care of themselves. Combat would teach them to take care of their buddies.


Chapter Nine

The Army Way

WE ALL HEARD the axiom many times: "There's a right way, a wrong way, and the Army way." Well, I added one: "Jack's way." The Army's first encounter with "Jack's way" came in Basic Combat Training.

One day I found my name on the duty roster listed as "Fire Guard." "What's that?" I asked another recruit standing nearby.

"You stoke the furnaces," he informed me.

"What furnaces?" I had seen air ducts branching throughout the barracks but never felt anything coming out of them.

He shrugged. "The sergeant will tell you if they need you."

The sergeant on duty needed me in the middle of the night. He sent the company runner to get me at "Oh dark thirty." I dressed hastily and reported to the orderly room.

"What furnaces?" I asked him.

"Go find 'em," he grumbled and headed back to his own bunk. "There's a door to the furnace room in the side of each building."

There was! There really was. I was convinced that they must only appear magically in moonlight. I hadn't noticed them before.

I crept inside and felt around for a light switch. I found one and flipped it. A motor started running. No light. I flipped it off and felt around until I found another. This one turned on a light revealing two iron monsters waiting for me. It took me a while to discern their purposes. One was a furnace and the other a hot water heater, both coal-fired.

Oh, that's why there was a pile of coal beside each building.

Now, here's where I should have gone back and asked the sergeant to instruct me in the "Army way." However, the last I saw of him didn't encourage me to go back and disturb his rest. As for the right way and the wrong way, I didn't have a clue. So, I went with Jack's way.

Examining the one that looked most like a furnace (it didn't have a lot of plumbing associated with it) I found two iron doors. Opening the top one revealed a grate full of ashes and three small lumps of coal glowing anemically. Behind the bottom door, I found ashes that had been accumulating since World War II. A lever on the outside of the furnace shifted the grating and I shifted it until all the ashes on top fell into the bottom. I then shoveled the whole pile of ashes into a likely looking ashcan nearby.

Luckily, I had some experience lighting a coal fire. I carried in enough coal to cover the grate and got it burning. I then adjusted the flues to make sure the fire got plenty of air.

I then turned my attention to the motor that I had accidentally started when I first entered the furnace room. It was supposed to be driving the fan that forced hot air from the furnace into the barracks. However, the fan belt was hanging on a nail where it wasn't doing any good. So, I connected the fan belt and turned on the motor.

I then turned my attention to the hot water heater and stoked a good fire after cleaning it thoroughly.

I repeated my ministrations in the remaining furnace rooms and went back to bed, satisfied with a job well done.

It was still dark when I next awoke to a lot of murmuring and the heavy tread of the duty sergeant stalking down the line of bunks looking for me. "Get dressed and follow me," he ordered.

I only had time to throw on my pants and boots before he disappeared out the front door. As I ran after him, I began to notice that everyone was awake and the place felt like a sauna.

The sergeant reached the furnace room door and threw it open. "Christ!" he shouted.

I slid to a stop beside him and peered inside. We didn't need to turn on the light. The room was illuminated by the glow of the furnace and hot water heater.

"Quick!" he ordered. "Open all the hot water faucets in the latrines."

I turned and ran, just to get out of his reach if for no other reason. I ran from building to building opening all the hot water faucets, and steam poured out of them.

I then found the sergeant readjusting the thermostats in all the buildings. Apparently, they had all been cranked up to their maximum settings in hopes of warming up the places. However, without the fan belts connected, there was nothing to drive the hot air to where it was needed. Not until, of course, I "fixed" them all.

I learned a valuable lesson that night. Actually, the lesson came later. I was never asked to stoke the furnaces again. That was alright with me. I never again had to wake up at "Oh dark thirty."


Chapter Ten

Close Combat

CLOSE COMBAT TRAINING during Basic Combat Training was limited. No one could even hope to learn to defend themselves on a battlefield without a rifle in just eight weeks, even if they practiced nothing else during that time. However, we were given a "taste" of it.

The truth is that those of us who went on to Advanced Infantry Training didn't receive enough either. Even with six months more during Infantry Officer Candidate School, I felt I needed more.

Basic training during the era of the Vietnam War focused primarily on defense and poking your enemy in the eyes or the groin. Don't laugh. It's a good beginning. I passed the most basic advice onto my youngest son when he was being tormented by a bully who loved to shove others. I taught him to simply step back with one foot and turn his body away when the young devil ran at him. I was fortunate to see the fruits of this labor when the attack came while I observed. My son stepped back as instructed and the bully fell on his face. He looked around confusedly for a moment and then went looking for someone else to shove.

We practiced close combat training in a sawdust pit surrounded by a shin high wall of sandbags. A wooden platform in the center served as a podium for the instructor. We paired off with no attempt to match us by height or weight. At one hundred seventy-five pounds, I was rarely outclassed in the match up on weight. However, at only five feet, eight inches, I often had to spar with men who had a greater reach. Fortunately, my father had been a professional prize fighter in his younger days and I knew how to duck and weave effectively. No, he hadn't taught me to fight. I learned while dodging his blows. My father used his fists for punishment.

Bayonet training was an entirely different experience. Communist countries manufactured infantry rifles with bayonets permanently affixed to the barrel. They folded back when not needed for close combat. They had dull edges to prevent soldiers from hurting themselves when the bayonet was folded back. Thus, they were only useful for stabbing someone. Our bayonets had edges that we could slash with as well as stab. I have never seen a knife as sharp as a bayonet. It is seriously sharp.

Fortunately, we practiced with our bayonets safely encased in scabbards. The Army didn't want anyone complaining to mommy who would likely sic their congressman on us. But, trainers demonstrated with bare blades. I once saw one pass through the hand of a sergeant during a demonstration. It seemed to pass through flesh and bone as easily as it passed through air.

Soldiers also use their rifles as clubs. We were taught the vertical and horizontal butt strokes. (I'll leave that to your imagination.) Practicing these techniques with rifles could result in serious injury or death. Thus, the Army substituted pugil sticks. You may have seen these on game shows like American Gladiator. They have thick wooden shafts, about the length of a rifle with a bayonet, and heavy padding on both ends. There's another pad in the center between the handholds. We were dressed in helmets and gauntlets and turned loose on each other. It was fun for those of us who mastered the necessary skills. Not so much for anyone else.

Our instructors impressed us with their skills in every manner of close combat. Indeed, as I have noted elsewhere in this series of postings about Basic Combat Training, I was impressed by the professionalism of every one of them. However, it still makes me smile to remember that every one of them began every class with the exhortation to pay careful attention - "This is the most important training that you will receive. This is the class that will keep you alive in combat."

Of course, they were all important. Although, after one day of close combat training, we asked our platoon sergeant what he thought. He smiled as though remembering some distant memory and then announced, "You run out of ammunition, go find more ammunition."


Chapter Eleven

Marksmanship

THE ARMY GAVE me a rifle soon after we arrived at Fort Gordon, Georgia, for Basic Combat Training. It was an M-14 magazine fed, gas-operated, semi-automatic weapon, caliber 7.62mm.

As I researched Castro's revolution, I learned that the Fidelistas were provided with weapons in Mexico. Most of them were given .30 caliber hunting rifles with telescopic sights. Fidel was convinced that the Cuban soldiers would fear his marksmen. A few of his men had submachine guns and some others had World War II era M1 carbines – the weapon depicted on Che's statue in Villa Clara. Most of their ammunition and supplies were abandoned when their vessel, Granma, ran aground and the Fidelistas waded ashore. Their remaining weapons and ammunition were lost when more than 70 of the 83 rebels were killed in the ambush that awaited them as they emerged from the mangrove swamp where they had taken shelter after abandoning ship.

The peasants recruited by Celia Sanchez had to bring their own weapons to the rebel camp on Pico Turquino. Those without weapons were turned away. Fidel simply didn't have any to supply to them. In one instance that I used in my novel, a young man who had been turned away, joined the Cuban army and then deserted after he was issued an M-1 Garand. The M-14s that we were issued at Fort Gordon replaced the M-1 in the U.S. Arsenal.

We arrived back at our barracks one evening after training to discover that someone had installed close circuit televisions (CCTV) at the end of each floor of each building. Our first lesson on the CCTV was the care and maintenance of our rifles. We pulled our footlockers together and followed the televised instructor as he field stripped and reassembled his weapon. In no time we were competing to see who could do it the fastest, blindfolded.

I had fired thousands of rounds of small bore ammunition – mostly .22 caliber – before I joined the army. I also shot trap and skeet with shotguns. Thus, I had no problem when it came to zero our weapons. We had to place three shots inside a one inch square target at 25 meters. Most of us Southern boys accomplished the task with just a few shots to adjust the sights. We then relaxed the rest of the day as the Yankees fired hundreds of rounds attempting to duplicate our feat. It was like having a day off.

I'm convinced my weapon was captured by the Viet Cong and thrown back as unfit for use. It was in pretty bad shape, but it served its purpose. I fired Expert when the time came to qualify with it. However, during night firing exercises, the sear pin wore away and it emptied the full magazine of twenty rounds with just one pull of the trigger. The sergeant in charge of the firing range was livid. "Who the hell's the John Wayne on my firing line!" he shouted as he came looking for the offender. Obviously, he believed that someone could pull the trigger that fast.

I kept my mouth shut.

I was lucky to keep the barrel pointed down range when that happened. Later, when we fired the AR-14, a fully automatic version of the M-14, we discovered that no one could control it. The barrel jerked off target when firing short bursts of just two rounds.

The Manual of Arms was equal parts a guide to marching and saluting with a rifle as well as how to fire it. Both halves were drilled into us until we could obey any command reflexively. Firearms safety was our first and foremost lesson. A battlefield is dangerous enough without the men around you mishandling their weapons.

I well remember our first time on the firing line. We were instructed to stand behind a row of stakes in the ground – one for each of us sticking about six inches above the earth. The sergeant in charge then ordered us to lay our weapons with the muzzles pointed down range, resting on the stakes in front of us, and then stand at attention with the butt end of rifles between our feet. He expressed his dissatisfaction with our performance and had us retrieve our weapons and do it again. And again. And again. It became apparent to me that he was establishing his control over us.

We learned three basic firing positions: standing, sitting, and prone. To qualify, we had to fire accurately on targets as far away as 400 meters from all three positions. There were three levels of qualification: Marksman, Sharpshooter, and Expert.

We also had to learn how to fire our weapons in combat. It wasn't enough to simply shoot at targets. We had to know which targets to engage and when to engage them. Fighting as a unit is vastly different from fighting as an individual. Individuals such as snipers shoot to kill – one shooter, one bullet, one kill. Infantry units such as fire teams, rifle squads, and rifle platoons shoot to destroy, neutralize, or suppress the enemy.

Fundamentally, Fidel's recruits were snipers, and he had to fashion them into infantry units. A sniper may inflict serious damage on an enemy. He may even demoralize an enemy. But, a sniper cannot defeat an enemy. His cover and concealment is usually compromised after a shot or two, and he has to withdraw before a well-trained infantry unit can maneuver to locate and destroy him. It takes an infantry unit to destroy an infantry unit. Thus, I could reasonably infer that the Fidelistas had to train the recruits to function effectively as infantry units before they could do any more than harry the Cuban army forces. Again, lacking any credible evidence to the contrary, I assumed in writing my novel that they were trained as I was at Fort Gordon.

Our weapons had to be cleaned and ready to be issued to the next class when our eight weeks of Basic Combat Training ended. The company armorer made sure they were cleaned well enough when we turned ours back to him. Each platoon was given ample cleaning supplies and a whole day to make them ready for inspection. Each man made several attempts to satisfy the armorer that his weapon was clean enough.

Unfortunately, I was detailed to the mess hall that day and had only a few minutes to clean my weapon. Of course, all the cleaning supplies were used up by the time I made it back to our barracks. I tore up a t-shirt to make cleaning patches and used a bottle of Jade East aftershave as a solvent. You should have seen the look on the armorer's face as he brought the weapon close to look down the barrel. He quickly pushed it away and looked at me incredulously. I shrugged and explained that I had been on KP all day. He shook his head and put my weapon on the rack. That was the last I saw of it.


Chapter Twelve

KP

I LEARNED THE SECRET of working in the mess hall the second time I was assigned to Kitchen Police (KP) duty. I thought that I learned it the first time, but I was wrong. KP's were allowed to choose their duty as they arrived: Dining Room Orderly (DRO), Server, etc. The Back Sink, where pots and pans were washed, was always left for the last man to arrive. The Mess Sergeant always found the KP's waiting in line when he arrived at 5 a.m.

I was somewhere in the middle of the line that first morning and coveted the DRO's all day. That looked like the job to have. They cleaned and waxed the floors and set up the chairs and tables for every meal, then seemed to disappear for the rest of the day. The cooks always found something for the other KP's to do all day. The man at the back sink never seemed to finish scrubbing pots and pans.

When my second turn came up for KP, I was up before anyone else. I might not have slept that night. It was a long time ago. In any event, I arrived first and claimed one of the two openings for DRO. Unfortunately, the other DRO didn't do his share. At lunch that day he was jawing with the Mess Sergeant and I was getting upset. I complained and the mess sergeant took me to the back sink. He gave my job as DRO to that man. I was not happy.

When I finally calmed down enough to survey my new domain, I found a large stack of very greasy pots and pans waiting to be cleaned. There was no stopper for the sink and a passing cook instructed me to cut a lemon in half and use that. How about that? Lemon fresh dishwater.

Next I discovered three water taps: cold, hot, and boiler. Boiler? I turned it on first and learned that it meant what the sign said. Boiling hot water poured out. I stopped it and took a moment to think. It had to be there for a reason.

I knew that hot water cleaned better than cold water. Wouldn't boiler water clean best? I filled the sink with it, added soap and dropped in a stack of pots and pans. Next problem: how to get them out.

Every cooking utensil had a hook on the end so that it could be hung up near the stoves and ovens. These appeared to be just what I needed. When I extracted the first pan I discovered that it was as clean as a whistle, no scrubbing required. As I pulled the rest out, I set them on the counter to one side. When I next turned to them, they were already dry. The heat they had absorbed in the sink had dried them.

One of the cooks was in the habit of washing his hands in the back sink. He only did that once while I worked there. He wandered up from behind me and plunged his hands into the water before I could warn him. They were beat red when he withdrew them, and he gave me a terrible look. I feared the worst, but he turned away without saying a word and left the mess hall. I don't remember ever seeing him again.

Thereafter, I slept late every morning that I was assigned to KP. I arrived just in time to avoid being classified AWOL. I shuffled to the back sink looking as sad as Br'er Rabbit when he was thrown into the brier patch (you know, the one where he had been born).

Actually, the greatest secret of manning the back sink was the fact that everyone left you alone so long as the pots and pans were clean, and that was easy. Being left alone was golden when you were a mere private in the Army. They didn't think of asking me to help unload the ration trucks when they arrived. Even the DRO's had to queue up to carry heavy bags and boxes of food and supplies.

Working the back sink also gave me the cat's bird seat in the mess hall. I got to see how the place was actually run. Most of the ingredients were as good as those I had seen in the kitchen of a restaurant that the father of one of my boyhood friends owned and operated. The food was well-prepared. The mess sergeant inspected the serving line every meal before the troops were fed. I remember once when he had the cook who was about to carve a roast add slices of lemon and sprigs of parsley around the base of the cutting board to make the meat look more appetizing. This is a detail that could be found in any fine dining establishment.

Of course, Castro and his men never ate this well during their stay on Pico Turquino as they trained and fought to free Cuba. I learned in the research for my novel, Rebels on the Mountain, that they rarely had meat. They subsisted on boniatos, sweet potatoes, just as the American rebels had at Valley Forge. Of course, most of Fidel's recruits were used to short rations. They had grown up as the poorest of peasants, living as outcasts and outlaws in the Sierra Madres Mountains at the far eastern end of Cuba.

Most of the men who trained with me weren't used to Army chow. It seems that Southerners dominated the ranks of Army cooks and we were fed southern comfort foods like grits and creamed meats and vegetables. Creamed ground beef on toast, affectionately known as Shit-on-a-Shingle (SOS), was common breakfast fare. The Yankees hated it. I still eat it for breakfast to this day. If I learned one thing in the Army, it was to eat a good breakfast. It was often the only hot meal you got.

Our mess sergeant is one of the few men whose name I cannot remember. This is surprising as I grew to respect him as much as all the others whose names I remember so well. I discovered that he was truly dedicated to feeding us well. He often had the cooks make extra pies and other treats that he traded to the ration truck drivers for extra supplies for the men in our company. Whenever we were on a long march, he would station trucks along the way to make sure we had plenty of water and Kool Aid if we wanted it.

On one occasion, we were issued C-Rations to eat for lunch during a long march. At one point, we found our mess sergeant and his crew of cooks and KP's waiting for us. They instructed us to remove any cans of meat and vegetables that we had in our C-Rations kits and drop them in the large cans of boiling water that they had set up along the road. Farther along, we found them waiting for us with hot food.

I believe that all of the jokes, songs, and stories complaining about Army food were the products of boys who just didn't know enough to appreciate how good the food really was. It simply wasn't the same as their mom's had made for them.


Chapter Thirteen

Graduation

NOT EVERYONE GRADUATED from Basic Combat Training. A few were discharged for medical or "other than honorable reasons." The stresses of the program of instruction proved too great for them. Some broke down emotionally. Others chafed at the discipline or simply couldn't get along with others in the close confines of the barracks. Then there were a few who couldn't pass the test.

Those who couldn't qualify as Marksmen with their weapon - the M-14 rifle - failed. There was a PT (Physical Training) Test. We had to run a mile within a proscribed time and cross a horizontal ladder, hand-over-hand. We had to throw dummy grenades and land them inside a circular target. We had to negotiate the run-dodge-jump and return within the specified time. We also had to show proficiency in marching, maintaining our weapons, and other basic combat skills required of every soldier, keeping in mind that all soldiers, regardless of their Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) had to be able to function as infantrymen.

Those who failed these tests were "recycled" to another BCT company and start the course all over again. A few were reassigned to the "bolo" company – the men who lacked basic coordination and strength. I can only imagine that they had grown up "protected" from games and the ordinary rough and tumble pursuits of boyhood.

Those who passed all tests graduated.

Our graduation was celebrated with a parade. All celebrations in the Army involve a parade. We stood at parade rest with two other training companies and listened to a speech by the base commanding general and then "passed in review" while the band played "Hey Look Me Over." That brought back an interesting memory.

"Hey Look Me Over" was written by Carolyn Leigh and Cy Coleman for the musical "Wildcat." I saw "Wildcat" in Philadelphia starring Lucille Ball when I was in pre-law. We had gone to debate health care (yes, we were debating nationalized health care way back in 1960) at Temple University. (I was against it and won, arguing that we needed a plan to fix the private insurance system but never allow the federal government to take it over – but that's another story.) We met Ms Ball after the show and had a delightful evening with her. Unfortunately, "Wildcat" closed after only 171 performances on Broadway. However, it left us with the perfect song to accompany a military inspection.

The company commander was authorized to promote the top one third of the graduates to Private E-2. I believe at that time, it earned us a $7/month raise in pay – from $89/month to $96. Don't laugh. What did we have to spend it on. Every need was provided for by the Army – food, shelter, clothing, medical care. We only spent our money on beer and cigarettes. Yes, soldiers were allowed to drink beer at the Post Exchange (PX) even though they were under age.

The PX sold only "green" beer – a variety that was canned before fermentation was completed. It only contained half the alcohol of regular beer. Today, we call it "lite" beer. Off post, it was called "watered down" and a bartender could be hurt if caught adding water to the drinks at a bar.

Of course, none of this was any problem for me. I was already past twenty-one. Well, it did create one problem when we received our first passes to spend a day in Augusta, Georgia. All the other guys wanted me to buy booze for them. That's just the kind of trouble I didn't need. Ultimately, I bought a pint of rum and promised to share it when we got back to the barracks. Somehow it was "lost" before we reached there.

In any event, we marched to a post theater following our graduation parade and Captain Sevcik, our company commanding officer, congratulated us, then began reading the role call of those who had been promoted. When he came to "Durish, John T." he paused, looked up confused and asked, "Who the hell's Durish?"

It made me happy. I had stayed under his radar for eight weeks.


Part III: Advanced Infantry Training

Chapter Fourteen

MOS

OVER THE YEARS I have consulted with every type of business from one man operations to multinational corporations, both public and private businesses. In all that time I have never worked with any organization better managed than the United States Army.

I hear you laughing. Seriously, think of any organization you have ever worked with or for. Now, imagine that organization moving half way around the world on a moment's notice. Imagine them attempting to do business (whatever that business may be) in a new and hostile environment - someone will be shooting at them. Oh, in addition to doing whatever it is they do, they must also feed, house, and clothe their employees and provide for their medical care. Right. They'll do just fine, won't they?

That's not to say there aren't screw-ups - Snafu's (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up). Of course there are. My first Snafu came when I completed Basic Combat Training at Fort Gordon, Virginia, and was transferred to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, for Advanced Infantry Training. A copy of my orders was sent to three offices at Fort Gordon: Finance, Medical, and Personnel. Each was supposed to transfer my records to my next post. Two made it, one didn't: Finance. There was no pay waiting for me at Fort Jackson for more than a week.

I wasn't the only victim. It appeared that no one in my new training platoon arrived with their Finance records, and we all went broke. It wasn't a disaster. After all, the Army provided everything we needed except beer and cigarettes. We could survive a few days without beer, but smoking was a nagging habit.

Inasmuch as I was an aspiring leader slated for Infantry Officer Candidate School, I felt compelled to craft a solution. I organized a police call outside the Post Exchange. In a "police call" the troops line up elbow-to-elbow and search the ground for trash. It's an effective method for cleaning up a large area. A sergeant entering the PX spotted us and stopped to criticize our work. "You're missing stuff," he complained. "Look, you just passed a cigarette butt there, soldier."

I looked back at the cigarette butt and shrugged. "We're not picking up trash," I said. I then explained that we were collecting coins that had been dropped so that we could buy a pack of cigarettes and split them between us. I also explained why – we weren't being paid.

He took pity and bought us each a carton. They were only $2/carton at the PX in those days.

I experienced other Snafu's during my 5+ years of active duty. That was just the first. Assignment of personnel to a Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) was fertile ground for Snafu's. After Basic Combat Training, we were all relegated to Army schools to be trained in our assigned MOS. Some of those assignment seemed to make no sense. The process often reminded me of an experience that Jack Benny used as grist for a joke. He said that when he entered the Navy, a friend who had been a janitor was assigned to a minesweeper. Another who had been a boxer was assigned to a battleship. At this point, Benny struck a thoughtful pose and wondered aloud, "Why did they put me on a ferry boat?"

The truth is that men were assigned to an MOS based on their experience and their scores on a battery of tests designed to measure aptitudes in a variety of areas as well as the needs of the service. In those early days of the build up of U.S. Forces in Vietnam, the service needed infantrymen. It wasn't a problem for me. That's what I had enlisted to become.

The most egregious mis-assignment I heard of was a man who had been drafted while working as a test pilot for Boeing. He was sent to school to become a postal clerk. When an officer there learned of his skill, he asked why the soldier hadn't said something. His only defense was that friends had warned him never to volunteer anything in the Army. He was given an immediate honorable discharge and sent back to work at Boeing. The Army felt that his service there was more critical to national defense than anything he could possibly do in the service.

That's another thing that convinced me that the Army was better managed than any other organization I had ever worked with. They were willing to correct mistakes. I found very few in government or business who ever had the courage to admit their mistakes let alone correct them – well, except for Toyota, but that's another story.

Basic Combat Training didn't create infantrymen. That was the objective of Advanced Infantry Training (AIT). While others were learning to be cooks, cannon cockers (artillerymen), MPs (Military Policemen), and the thousands of other occupational specialties of the Army, we learned to be infantrymen.


Chapter Fifteen

Learning to Cheat

I WAS FORTUNATE to be assigned to a company in Advanced Infantry Training occupying newly constructed barracks at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. They were modern brick buildings with separate rooms for each squad of four trainees. It was a far cry from the old wooden barracks that we occupied in Basic Combat Training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, with thirty men sleeping on bunk beds in an open bay area.

The other members of my squad included a graduate of Harvard with a degree in economics (I can't remember his name), Bill Downey, who had been with me on the train to Georgia, and Mort Beech, a college boy from Texas who belonged to one of those fraternities that only allowed Cadillacs to be parked in spaces visible to the public (especially coeds). Obviously, we weren't typical of the recruits that you'd find in the Army except during a time when the draft boards were scouring the countryside aggressively.

I quickly learned to play bridge in their company. Bill's parents were both Grand Masters of the game and he had been weaned on it. Our squad mates had played it extensively in their college fraternities. I, on the other hand, had been raised on gin gummy and poker. Bill taught me the rules. The Harvard grad taught me the odds. Mort taught me to cheat.

My first lesson in cheating came during a hand when Mort and I were partners sitting on the floor across from each other while Bill and Mr Ivy League sat on opposite ends of a bunk. They obviously held the better cards and were looking for an appropriate contract while Mort and I sat passively waiting. As it became apparent that spades would be the trump suit, I felt a gentle tap on my leg. Looking down, I saw Mort's bare foot with three cards, all hearts, between his toes. I replaced them with three spades that I was holding. Thus, Mort had voided himself in hearts and on the first trick I led a heart and he was able to trump it. Our opponents grumbled at the bad distribution of cards that cost them their contract and awarded us the points. Bad card distribution plagued them the rest of the night and they never figured it out. I learned that the child of Grand Masters and Ivy Leaguers weren't as smart as they thought they were.

We played so much bridge during that eight weeks of AIT that we wore the spots off a deck of Kem plastic playing cards. Sergeants would walk over when we took breaks between classes to see if we were playing something more familiar to them, such as poker. They always wandered off mumbling when they found us playing bridge.

Not that it was all fun and games in AIT. We worked hard. We practiced the skills that we had learned in Basic until we mastered them. We were retested on our marksmanship with the M-14, and practiced close combat techniques until they became reflexive. We weren't taught how to fight. We were taught how to kill. There's no time for fighting on the battlefield.

There were other weapons to master. The M-60 machine gun was my favorite. We began learning how to fire a burst of six rounds and keep them all inside a one inch square target located 25 meters away. I sprayed the target until a sergeant got down beside me and whispered a secret. "The gun's trying to walk away from you, son," he said.

He was right. It had a massive device in the stock to absorb the recoil that I had to control by holding the weapon tighter against my shoulder. It worked. On the next attempt, I placed all six rounds inside the one inch square target.

I went on to qualify as a sharpshooter on the M-60 and I am upset about it to this day. I should have fired "expert." However, the temperature rose above training limits the day we were tested, and I had to stop firing until it fell back. We played a few rubbers of bridge while we waited. When it did, heat rose in waves from the ground obscuring the targets at 800 meters that I had to hit.

I guess it's a "guy-thing," the thrill of shooting high-powered weapons. That thrill was ramped up a notch when we trained on the M-79 40mm grenade launcher and the 3.5 inch rocket launcher commonly known as the bazooka. I still get goose bumps at the memory.

We weren't assigned KP (Kitchen Police) duty during AIT. They used civilian contractors to maintain the mess halls. We had more important things to do with our time and couldn't afford to miss even one day of training.


Chapter Sixteen

Taking It Easy

WE WERE TREATED more like real soldiers in Advanced Infantry Training than we were in Basic Combat Training. There wasn't any free time in Basic. We were being trained almost every minute of every day. In AIT, we had some time to ourselves, to relax, go to a movie, and visit a craft shop.

The craft shop systems operated by Army Special Services (never to be confused with Special Forces) is one of the best kept secrets in the Army. I was in charge of Special Services for a time at Tripler Army Medical Center in Hawaii after I completed my tour of duty in Vietnam. We had woodworking equipment, a color and black & white photo lab, golf driving range, tennis courts, and more. At Fort Jackson I began throwing clay.

It was at the potter's wheel that I had time to reflect on the decision I had made to volunteer for the infantry and the possible outcome. The feel of the clay spinning in my hands often lulled me into a fugue state wherein I could think clearly.  
I never actually made anything there. I simply threw a lump of clay on the wheel, centered it, and drew a cylinder. I might give it a crude shape like a cup or a bowl. But, at the end of the evening, I scraped the clay off the potter's wheel and threw it back into the bin. It is the most relaxing art media in which I have ever worked. No matter what tensions I took back to the barracks from a day of training, I left them at the craft shop.

It wasn't until I ran the Post Theater at Tripler that I came to understand the system. Army Special Services took just about every film that came out of Hollywood including, the good, the bad, and the indifferent. Only a few more than 200 were produced each year and we kept each one only a few days. Every film began with the playing of the national anthem while patriotic images were projected on the screen. Every member of the audience, including military dependents, leapt to their feet and remained standing at attention until given the order to "Take – seats!"

For those of you who have never served, let me explain. Every order has two parts: Preparation and Execution. You wouldn't hear, "Take seats," spoken without a pause. The command is given "Take" to prepare you to act in unison, and "Seats" to cue everyone to sit down. When you watch television or a movie, listen to see if they do it correctly. "Atten – tion!" "Stand at – ease!" "Forward – march!"

My wife can tell you that I am almost always annoyed by the portrayal of the military on television and in the movies. Few make the effort to get it right. Sloppy hand salutes are particularly grating. The salute is a sign of respect between soldiers and those who do it sloppily are showing disrespect.

I am also unhappy when the military are used for comic relief or as the villains. They rush in to destroy aliens without waiting to discover their intentions. They exacerbate any catastrophe by responding precipitously. You'll occasionally find people who hold the military in little regard commenting in this blog. They hold the military in low regard.

Fortunately, the military holds all civilians in the same high regard. They will defend your rights and liberties regardless of your political or ideological beliefs. The military doesn't start wars, never have. They end them. And, President Reagan had it correct when he said that the best defense is a strong one. Nothing will deter the bullies of the world like the prospect that they will get their noses bloodied if they mess with you. Pacifism has never deterred war. It has only invited it. This is not an opinion. It is historically demonstrable fact.

That being said, we didn't serve because we loved war. No one hates war more than the soldier, for he knows that he will be the first to go in harm's way.


Chapter Seventeen

No KP

I WAS HAPPILY surprised to discover that we were excused from KP duty during Advanced Infantry Training. We all were. I suppose that the Army decided that our infantry training was too important to miss for even one day. I don't know who was pulling KP duty for us. I never bothered to ask. I probably feared that someone might take my question as a suggestion to sign us up.

Fortunately, Army cooks manned the kitchen. I'm guessing that some readers are still amazed from my comments in the first section -- Basic Combat Training -- that I actually liked Army food. Sorry, it's still true. I found nothing to complain about. If anything, the Army changed some of my eating habits, probably for the better.

For one thing, I became a breakfast eater. Prior to enlisting, I was a late riser. I rarely had time enough to shower, shave, dress, and race to school or work. I usually broke my fast about mid-morning. Sleeping late was a luxury that I had to surrender in the Army, and eating a good breakfast was a requirement to last through a day full of strenuous exercise. Now approaching seventy, I still rise early, exercise, and eat a hearty breakfast. It's my favorite meal of the day. I could eat breakfast-food every meal.

I'll have to admit that my breakfast fare is healthier these days. My favorite is a frittata made with egg whites and vegetables. Occasionally, I'll treat myself to SOS (Shit-on-a-Shingle) -- that's creamed ground beef on toast (not chipped beef, ground beef). It took me years to develop a recipe that replicated the taste and texture of the SOS served for breakfast in Army mess halls. I have eaten SOS served in Navy and Marine Corps messes and it doesn't come close -- the Army's is far superior. In fact, nothing in a Navy or Marine Corps mess hall (galley) ever equals Army food. I've heard that crews on nuclear-powered submarines enjoy a special diet to compensate for being stuck in a metal tube underwater for months on end. I can't say. I only cruised on a submarine once. It was a diesel boat and we weren't at sea long enough to have a meal. We were supposed to, but the wife of one of our group went into early labor and we returned to Norfolk so that the Navy could fly him to Baltimore to be with her when she delivered.

I can't speak for the Air Force. I never had the pleasure of dining in one of their facilities, although I ate several meals served on Air Force transports. It wouldn't be fair to judge their food by those standards, would it? Although it is curious that Air Force personnel in Vietnam seemed to love Army C-Rations. They would trade almost anything to get their hands on some. But, that's another story that I'll dwell on in the next journal about my tour of duty in Vietnam.

I have had several opportunities over the years following my time in the Army to eat in mess halls. Generally, I enjoyed the food although, as I mentioned, none in the Navy or Marine Corps lived up to the standards of the Army. I even enjoyed meals at the Coast Guard facility on Coast Guard Island in San Francisco Bay. We took the Sea Scouts there every year on Memorial Day weekend to compete in the Ancient Mariners Regatta. The food was good until they turned over their mess hall to civilian contractors.

I had the same experience with the Boy Scout Camp in Lost Valley, California. The food there was excellent the first year I took my son's Cub Scout Webelos Den for a week's campout. Of course, they had a retired Army cook running the kitchen. We returned the next year to find that the Boy Scouts had contracted with the same civilian food service that the Coast Guard was using with the same results.

It's hard to say what made Army chow so good. As I wrote at the beginning of this essay, I didn't have KP duty in AIT and, thus, couldn't observe what they were doing. I had watched when I could while on KP in BCT and, even though I was an experienced cook, I didn't see anything going on that was special. I think that the key to the mystery is that food is generally better when prepared in large quantities.

Anyone who has eaten prime rib at a restaurant and then attempted to prepare it at home should understand this concept. It's never quite as good at home, is it? The reason is that restaurants cook all seven primal ribs in one roast. They stand it in the oven so that gravity forces the juices to permeate the meat rather than percolate out the sides. This vertical orientation in the oven explains the name standing rib roast. The fact that it includes the seven primal ribs of the steer explains its name, prime rib.

Home cooks generally purchase only two ribs in a rib roast. To buy more would be a waste unless you're inviting the whole neighborhood and have a fat bank account. Thus, there are less juices to permeate the meat. Of course, rib steaks, cut from the same roast fall even shorter in taste even though they are cut from the same part of the same cow.

Does all this explain why I have never had tapioca pudding as good as they serve in a mess hall? Is there some equivalency in preparing tapioca in five gallon batches to roasting large portions of meat? It's a mystery, that's for sure.


Chapter Eighteen

Heavy Weapons Training

AFTER MORE THAN two months playing with large caliber infantry rifles and machine guns, I was getting antsy to blow up something. That's when we were introduced to rocket launchers and mortars. I loved them.

In all my research on the revolution in Cuba, I haven't been able to find any evidence that Castro had access to artillery until the very end. Insurgents rarely had it. Once his rebel columns began moving towards Havana, capturing cities and towns along the way, the Cuban army began deserting en masse and Fidel's arsenal quickly swelled with tanks and artillery of all calibers.

I was able to learn that the Fidelistas acquired machine guns as soon as they began raiding Cuban army outposts in the Oriente Province. I never found any mention of mortars; however, I am certain that the Fidelistas would have done everything in their power to procure a few. They've been popular with every insurgent movement throughout recent history. The Viet Cong in particular employed mortars effectively.

Machine guns and rocket launchers – bazookas – belong to the heavy weapons squad attached to every American infantry platoon. We learned that machine guns are typically employed in pairs in platoon tactics; however, we were training for combat in Vietnam, and learned that a single machine gun was often attached to squads to suppress enemy fire while they maneuvered. Bazookas were originally designed and employed as antitank weapons. The Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) didn't have armor, and the rockets were employed against bunkers and other structures that the enemy occupied for cover.

Every rifle company included a heavy weapons platoon that was equipped with mortars. These are indirect fire weapons that can lob explosive rounds over obstacles. They're highly effective at short ranges, but can throw rounds accurately at much greater ranges. They were used most often to provide final defensive fire; that is, they would drop explosive rounds along the front of a defensive position to help repel attackers.

Machine guns, bazookas, and mortars are crew-served weapons – it takes more than one man each to transport and employ them in battle. Serving a machine gun, bazooka, or a mortar is hard work. Both include multiple pieces, each of which is heavy. The machine gun has spare barrels and a tripod. The mortar has a tube, a bi-pod, and a heavy base plate. Also, the mortar crew chief carries the sight that is attached separately. The bazooka tube is fairly light, but the rockets themselves are heavy. Ammunition for machine guns and mortars are similarly difficult to transport because of their size and weight.

Mortars are area weapons. They are rarely fired at a small target such as an individual enemy soldier. They are fired at groups of them in fixed positions or advancing across open terrain. Hitting a vehicle with a mortar round, especially one that is moving, is more a matter of luck than skill. However, there are tales told of Japanese soldiers during World War II who could drop rounds inside a moving jeep using a small, hand-held mortar. Also, as a Sea Scout sailing near Pooles Island in the Chesapeake Bay, where rounds from Aberdeen Proving Grounds impacted during test firings, I had seen mortars used to sink can buoys just a few feet in diameter, much to the chagrin of the Coast Guard who had to replace them.

There is little difference between mortars then and now. In a traditionally fought battle, the heavy weapons platoon deploys their mortars behind the company's defensive lines. Inasmuch as there was nothing traditional about the war in Vietnam, we had to learn new tactics, improvising many in the heat of combat. Fire bases in Vietnam could be approached from any side -- there weren't any "fronts" like those drawn on maps of World War II \-- and mortar crews had to be prepared to fire all directions, sometimes simultaneously.

Mortar crews rarely see their target. They depend on Forward Observers (FO), soldiers who see the target and communicate its location to the mortar crew. The FO may provide the grid coordinates of the target or those of his location. In the latter case, the FO also provides the azimuth (compass direction) and distance from his location to the target. The mortar crew leader calculates the direction and angle at which the mortar must be fired to hit the target.

The mortar is deployed by laying down the base plate first. It needs flat, firm ground so that the weapon remains relatively motionless each time it is fired. The ball at the end of the mortar tube is inserted into a socket in the base. This allows the weapon to be pointed in any direction and at any angle without moving the base. A bipod is attached to the tube to hold it upright and the sight is attached to the tube last. The crew places an aiming stake upright in the ground a few yards from the weapon. All aiming directions will be calculated in relation to the stake. For example, if the target is on the other side of a tree line out of sight, the gunner aims at the stake using an angle that will point the weapon in the proper direction.

The distance the weapon fires is determined by two factors. The angle at which the tube is set and the number of supplemental propellant packets that are attached to the fins of the mortar round. Each mortar round has a main propellant charge and a number of packets attached to its fins. Unlike artillery, mortar tubes are not rifled to spin the round and make it stable in flight. That is the function of the fins. Firing tables containing pre-calculated settings tell the gunner the angle and number of packets to use to reach any distance. (We learned that spare propellant packets are great for flash cooking C-Rations.)

Mortars are usually fired in groups of three or four tubes. Since the FO can only guess at the range to the target, the first rounds are fired by one tube only to "register" the target. The FO sends back corrections that the gunner uses to adjust his aim. To the enemy, the rounds appear to "walk" towards him. When a registration round falls on or sufficiently near the target, the FO calls for the gunners to "fire for effect." All tubes are then aimed using the same targeting calculations and fired simultaneously.

We learned that the Viet Cong employed mortars very effectively. Usually lacking communications to coordinate between FOs and gun crews, they generally fired their mortars at short ranges, at targets they could either see or areas they had pre-targeted hoping that Americans would stumble into them. Inasmuch as the gunners could see their targets, it was a simple matter for them to align their tubes with their targets. However, range was determined using skill and experience. Unless they guessed well, they too had to "walk" their rounds to the target.

Whereas mortars fire indirectly, machine guns and bazookas are direct fire weapons. The gunners aim at targets they can see. Both weapons employ a gunner and a loader. Both are devastating but expensive to operate. Ammunition bearers pay the price. A man may carry two or three belts of .30 caliber ammunition only to see a machine gun eat them up in a couple of minutes. (Fidel must have cringed when he heard a machine gun rattling away at the enemy. His little army was poorly financed. Most of his wealthiest potential donors were in Miami and they didn't want to finance the revolution unless they received assurances that they would play a major role in the new government, assurances that Fidel was loath to provide. Thus, he had to content himself with stealing it from his adversaries.)

We all learned the basics of deploying and employing heavy weapons in AIT. However, the men who were assigned to them in Vietnam needed additional training to become proficient with them. They needed practice to become efficient working as a team. Setting up a crew served weapon is a carefully choreographed dance wherein "stepping on your partners toes" can get you killed.


Chapter Nineteen

Fire Team Training

AS I WROTE Rebels on the Mountain, I thought back to my infantry training. Lacking any evidence to the contrary, I surmised that the Fidelistas who had been trained in Mexico must have learned many of the same lessons that I did. When they arrived in Cuba, the few who survived the initial ambush and fled into the mountains with Castro, must have used that training to prepare the recruits for battle. After teaching them the basics of marching and following orders, they had to learn how to fight as a team.

My research revealed that Castro fought with a force of approximately three hundred men divided into two columns (what we would refer to as companies). His brother, Raúl, and Camilo Cienfuegos were the capitáns of the columns. Che Guevara was the force's doctor and, of course, Fidel himself was the commandante. That left only eight of the surviving Fidelistas who came ashore from the Granma with Fidel to lead the new recruits. Each would command about thirty-five men which is a fair approximation of an infantry platoon. Each platoon could be organized into four squads, each squad into two fire teams of four men.

Fire teams in the rifle platoon evolved with weaponry. During the period when I was enrolled in Advanced Infantry Training, it consisted of a riflemen (M-14), an automatic rifleman (Browning Automatic Rifle) and a grenadier (M-79 grenade launcher). As assault rifles with full automatic firing capability replaced semi-automatic infantry rifles, the dedicated automatic rifle became superfluous. Regardless of their weaponry, the fire team is the most basic infantry unit. It may function autonomously or as a part of infantry squads, platoons, and companies.

Ideally, a fire team is led by a fourth member, a sergeant (three stripes, E5). However, during the troop buildup in Vietnam, there were an insufficient number of non-commissioned officers (sergeants) of all grades, and a fire team might be led by a specialist/corporal, or even a private first class. Thus, in most cases, the team leader had no more training or experience than the men who followed him. Interestingly, the Fidelistas didn't have anyone with any experience in combat except for Fidel and Raúl who had fought poorly in the attack on the barracks at Moncada that led to their arrest, imprisonment, and exile to Mexico. Not an auspicious recommendation.

I'm sure that the Fidelistas had to learn basic team concepts such as fields of fire and fire and maneuver techniques just as we did in Advanced Infantry Training. Thus, I used those descriptions in Rebels on the Mountain.

Employing fields of fire is a defensive tactic to insure that all enemies will be engaged along a line of battle. Men who fire their weapons as individuals without coordination, may all aim at the same enemy or just a few, allowing others to advance unopposed. Leaders assign overlapping fields of fire to each riflemen to insure that there aren't any gaps through which an enemy may approach without being fired upon. If riflemen aren't disciplined and begin firing on each others targets, a position could be overrun easily.

Fire and maneuver is an offensive tactic. A fire and maneuver team of two men, usually led by the senior-most of the two, attacks by having one man fire his weapon to suppress the enemy's ability to fight effectively, while his partner rushes the enemy position. Typically, the man rushing forward only moves a few paces to the next available cover and the team members switch roles. Most riflemen, even the most expert, need about five seconds to focus on a target, aim, and fire effectively - about the same amount of time it takes for a man to rise from cover, run two or three paces, and dive for cover. The forward-most man then fires to suppress the enemy while the other rushes forward. They continue alternating until they are close enough to destroy or capture the enemy - for example, to be close enough to toss a grenade accurately.

I had to get creative in Rebels on the Mountain, imagining how the Fidelistas could have passed this training on to the recruits that joined them in Cuba. American Army training centers have well designed and constructed facilities to provide venues for recruits to learn and practice combat skills. The Fidelistas would have had to construct field expedients of their own design. It was fun imagining how I would have accomplished it had I been among them.


Chapter Twenty

Platoon Training

ADVANCED INFANTRY TRAINING taught me what a platoon is. Officer Candidate School taught me how to lead one in combat. One other member of my training squad, Bill Downey, shared that journey but I have lost track of him. The only thing I know is that his name doesn't appear on The Wall at the Vietnam War Memorial. Thank God.

An infantry rifle platoon consists of three rifle squads and a heavy weapons squad, usually equipped with two machine guns. However, they may be supplemented with other crew-served weapons such as small caliber mortars or rocket launchers – bazookas – depending upon their situation.

The platoon is supposed to be led by a commissioned officer – a second lieutenant – and a senior non-commissioned officer – a master sergeant (E7). The shortage of lieutenants and senior sergeants in Vietnam left many platoons being commanded by lower grade sergeants. I suspect that Fidel Castro had a similar problem in Cuba.

The Fidelistas were ambushed shortly after their arrival in Cuba on board the cabin cruiser Granma. Only about eleven or twelve of them survived. Since their number included Fidel and his brother, Raúl, who served as a capitán of one column, and Camilio Cienfuegos, who served as capitán of the other, and Che Guevara, the group's doctor, there were only seven or eight who had any military training and could serve as platoon leaders.

Truthfully, I couldn't find any extant documents describing the organization of Fidel's rebel band. I had to guess at it using my training and experience as well as common sense. Since the remainder of Fidel's small army, about 270 men were primarily recruited from the outlaws and outcasts who populated the Sierra Madres mountains at the eastern end of Cuba, it is doubtful that any of them could have served as leaders until they gained some training and experience. Thus, I imagined the surviving Fidelistas from the Granma serving in that capacity. They must have led them in training as well as combat.

I suspect that they trained as platoons, inasmuch as there weren't enough trained leaders to break the recruits down into smaller training units. Their platoon leaders probably led these smaller units in combat until fire team and squad leaders emerged from the ranks and proved themselves capable. Even then, I doubt if they fought very often in groups larger than squad level. They lacked the means of communications needed to command and coordinate large unit operations effectively, which is why their earliest actions were ambushes.

American rifle platoons include a radio telephone operator – RTO – who is a key member of the team. A fighting force must be able to move, shoot, and communicate to be effective in combat. (All evidence tells me that Castro did not have any electronic communications devices until very late in the revolution. Thus, he must have had to improvise. Inasmuch as radios have a nasty habit of failing just when you need them most, even the well-equipped Cubans must have had the same problems. I know we did in the American Army).

Although we see in the news that almost every infantryman today seems to have a two-way radio, we didn't. We had to make do with more primitive means of communication. Shouting worked in the lulls that occurred occasionally. Visual signals were more reliable but hard to see at night or in dense foliage. Thus, infantrymen often found themselves fighting on their own initiative. The platoon or squad leader made sure that each man had an operation order and understood it. What is the objective? Where is the enemy and how is he deployed, in what strength? What is the order of battle - who does what, when. What will we do if everything goes south. How will be communicate. How will we identify each other. What friendly forces are nearby and how will be coordinate with them. It has been argued, reasonably, that the success of American forces has often arisen from the ability of the individual infantryman, airman, or sailor to act on their own initiative, especially when confronting enemies trained to obey orders strictly and armies wherein initiative is severely punished.

In the end, I believe that the Fidelistas prevailed over the Cuban army primarily on their initiative. The Cuban army seemed to lack the ability to seize an opportunity because initiative is usually punished in dictatorships. No tyrant wants men in power who might seize an opportunity to depose them. Indeed, Fulgencio Batista, the man Castro deposed from power, had risen because he was precisely the kind of man no dictator wants in his army.

Batista had been a sergeant, a leader of clerks. He rose to commander in chief by leading the "sergeants revolt in Cuba." Senior officers had been supporting an unpopular Cuban president, Gerardo Machado. Batista used the unrest in the population to incite the non-commissioned officers who surrounded a barracks where the officers had barricaded themselves. He then brought artillery pieces to their door and demanded their surrender. No, Batista wasn't about to allow an ambitious army officer – commissioned or non-commissioned – to remain in the army long enough to do the same thing to him.

In the end, his lack of competent leaders was Batista's undoing. Batista himself was not a combat soldier. He probably wouldn't have recognized an effective leader even if he sought one. Thus, Fidel's highly motivated rebels, just 300 strong, ultimately defeated Batista's modern army of 40,000 soldiers, trained and equipped by his allies in America.

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Chapter Twenty-One

Fearing Combat

AS WE NEARED the end of Advanced Infantry Training, there was awareness that the next step in our military careers was going to be one of the most challenging in our lives. For most of us, it was a tour of duty in Vietnam. We were supposedly ready. For a few of us, it was Officer Candidate School (OCS). It may have seemed a reprieve from the war in Vietnam, but as we later learned, OCS was a challenge that few of us could aspire to and even fewer would master.

I don't know what happened to those other men who shipped out to Vietnam immediately following our graduation. So many young men came into and departed my life while in the Army that it is impossible to keep track of them all. I imagine them hovering just beyond my consciousness and I wonder if we'll meet again in another time and place. We shared so many common hardships and fears that I know we will recognize each other in an instant if there is a place for soldiers in heaven. I know that we'll share the answer to the question that we all shared at that time: How will I react in combat? Will I be a hero or a coward? Will I live or die? I imagine that most of us fooled ourselves the same way we all fool ourselves when faced with potential outcomes that we would rather avoid – it won't happen to me – I won't die, I won't run – it'll be the other guy.

It reminds me of another time, when the National Safety Council heralded every holiday weekend with a public service announcement designed to scare us into driving safely. "400 people will die on the nation's highways this holiday weekend!" they proclaimed. They were correct. Whatever number they declared, died. Their message was totally ineffective at preventing deaths. Why? Simply because every motorist dismissed the message as pertaining to the other guy.

So, we marched off to war clutching to some unrealistic belief in invincibility. There may have been some savant among us who understood the odds, but the rest of us were left to simply cling to unreasoned fatalism.

And, we were confident. Those last training exercises gave us confidence. An infantry assault coordinated with armor, artillery, and air support is a terrible sight to behold, especially at night.

We crept along trails and ravines to the line of departure. There we spread out in a single rank facing an enemy dug into rifle pits and foxholes. The artillery came first, blasting the enemy positions with high explosives (HE) and white phosphorous (Willy-Peter) rounds while we checked our equipment and established contact with units to our right and left. Then, at a prearranged time, the artillery began to fall directly in front of us and "walk" towards the enemy positions while we followed, tanks rumbling in gaps in our line.

We opened up fire with a tracer between every four rounds to help us better aim. Our sights were virtually useless in the dark. All those explosions. All those tracers. It was beautiful, terribly beautiful to behold. How could anyone stand in our way let alone fight us? Of course, what the Army couldn't simulate was the enemy standing and fighting back. Still, it was impressive and it built our confidence. Maybe, just maybe, we would survive a tour of duty in Vietnam.

What we didn't realize then was that this was how Army's fought in World War II. We wouldn't learn how to fight in Vietnam until we reached Vietnam. We didn't know that we would be fighting mostly from ambush or while being ambushed.

I have to laugh now thinking back on the westerns that I grew up watching in theaters and on television. Hoot Gibson, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, would sneer in disgust at any "dirty bushwhacker." Yet we wouldn't survive, let alone prevail, until we learned how to be better bushwhackers than the Vietnamese. Didn't anyone up the chain of command realize that an army of insurgents wasn't about to stand and fight like the Germans?

I didn't have any problems envisioning Fidel's tactics as I wrote Rebels on the Mountain. The lessons I learned in Vietnam taught me well how the Fidelistas would have fought – how they would have had to have fought. Just three hundred of them facing a well-armed, well-equipped modern army couldn't have succeeded had they simply lined up and gone head-to-head with the dictator's forces. The fact that they won told me how they had to have fought.

There are no reliable documents of this fight. Both sides claimed victory in every engagement. The dictator's government claimed victories even when there were no engagements. They also proclaimed Fidel's death many times and you can easily see how false those claims were.

Unfortunately, for Batista, the dictator who Castro deposed, he didn't have commanders capable of initiative and creativity. He lost. Fortunately for the United States, we had commanders in Vietnam who learned to adapt. They created new tactics. They simply weren't able to propagate them to the training centers in the United States before we graduated. We had to wait until we reached Vietnam to learn them.

There are those who will argue that we still lost. However, they argue in ignorance of the fact that we won militarily. Even the North Vietnamese leaders admitted as much afterwards, that they were driven to the peace conference by American military victories. To their surprise, we left and they occupied the South. Had we left a token force along the Demilitarized Zone as we did in Korea, the results might have been much the same as they were in Korea. Hundreds of thousands of murders committed by the communists might have been averted. Countless deaths of people escaping brutal occupation might never have occurred. The South Vietnamese might have built a better home for themselves. But, we'll never know now, will we?

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Chapter Twenty-Two

Guard Duty

WE STOOD GUARD during both Basic Combat Training and Advanced Infantry Training. I decided to mention it only once, in this section of the Journal, because it was equally loathsome duty whenever it occurred.

Guard duty always began with the Guard Mount during which we were inspected. After a full day of training, we had only a few minutes to report for guard duty. Thus, we prepared for days in advance, setting aside our spare boots and one complete uniform, making sure that both were immaculate. Whether or not we used our rifles that day, we re-cleaned them to make sure that there wasn't a speak of dirt or rust anywhere on them. We sat reviewing the General Orders as we shoved cleaning patches through the barrels.

I understand that the Army has condensed the General Orders for Sentries to three. Lucky dogs. We had eleven:

To take charge of this post and all government property in view.

To walk my post in a military manner, always keeping on the alert and observe everything that takes place in sight and hearing.

To report all violations of orders I am instructed to enforce.

To repeat all calls from post more distant from the guardhouse than my own.

To quit my post only when properly relieved.

To receive, obey, and pass on to the sentry who relieves me, all orders from the Commanding Officer and Officers of the Guard only.

To talk to no one except in the line of duty.

To give the alarm in case of fire or disorder.

To call the Officer of the Guard in any case not covered by instructions.

To salute all officers and standards and colors not cased.

To be especially watchful at night and during the time for challenging, to challenge all persons on or near my post, and to allow no one to pass without proper authority.

Guards were usually required to recite one or more of these orders during inspection. Failure was not tolerated. You had to know them all before you could walk your post, or else you stayed up all night until you mastered them.

The Officer of the Guard inspected each man in the Guard Mount. We stood at attention with our rifles by our sides -- Order Arms -- while we waited our turn. We brought them to Port Arms -- held with both hands diagonally across our bodies -- when the officer stepped in front of us. We had to release our weapons and drop our hands smartly to our sides as soon as he grasped it with one hand placed between our two. He would then instruct us to recite one of the general orders as he inspected the weapon.

When he was satisfied that our weapon was properly cleaned and maintained, and that we had recited the specified general order correctly and without hesitation, he would inspect our uniforms and grooming after returning our weapons. Smart-ass, young second lieutenants loved to torment the Guard Mount by asking for recitation of a general order before taking possession of the weapon. It is impossible to focus on a mental task and command your hands to release a weapon simultaneously. Thus, the victim of this prank found themselves playing tug-of-war with the officer while they stumbled through the recitation, and the lieutenant smiled maniacally. Of course, I never resorted to such behavior after I was commissioned.

The person who passed inspection with the fewest flaws was given the best guard post, usually roving guard. That meant that you rode around the camp in a jeep with a driver while your buddies marched their posts. It was worth doing your best to earn that duty.

I won roving guard once during AIT. It was a joy compared to the alternative. We even stopped at the PX for a snack where I discovered Fritos for the first time. I bought several packages and shared them with the others. It was a habit that I carried over to Vietnam when I was the Officer of the Guard there. I would visit the bunkers in the middle of the night distributing coffee and desserts that I would mooch from the bakers who worked at night to avoid working the ovens in the heat of the day there. I knew how hard it was to stay awake on guard duty. It was a lesson that I learned the hard way during BCT and AIT.

I admit that stopping at the PX for a snack while roving guard was a violation of the general orders. However, it was fortunate that I did. As I was exiting the PX, my buddy who had been walking guard around the Top Secret Cage (an adjunct to the communications center) marched in with a prisoner at gun point. He was looking for a telephone to call the Guard House.

His prisoner pleaded with his eyes. He was scared to death. After I took charge of him and sent my buddy back to the Top Secret Cage, he told me that he had gone to the front porch on the building to get a soda from the vending machine there. The guard found him as he was inserting coins. He tried explaining that he was only buying a soda when the guard yanked back on the cocking lever three times.

The guard at the Top Secret Cage was the only one who walked his post with a loaded weapon. His twenty-round magazine was filled with two blank cartridges to fire as warning shots, and eighteen live rounds. Cocking his gun three times in quick succession cycled the weapon until it was loaded with a live round. The prisoner raised his hands and followed the guard's instructions very carefully thereafter.

My driver and I loaded the poor guy into the jeep and drove him back to the Guard House so that the Officer of the Guard could straighten out everything. In addition to the General Orders, some guard posts came with special orders. I never found out if cycling his weapon to load a live round was part of the special orders for that post.


Chapter Twenty-Three

Graduation

ANOTHER GRADUATION, another parade. Another formation, another speech. We were now infantrymen. We could now affix the brass insignia with the crossed-rifles of infantrymen to our collars. We also nested each insignia in an infantry-blue plastic disk and wore a blue cord over our left shoulders. We took pride in these symbols because we had earned them.

We were handed orders. Most were sent to replacement depots in Vietnam. From there they would be allocated to units already in the field.

Others were sent to new units that were being assembled at Army installations all over the United States. These would be deployed to Vietnam en masse.

A few were sent to units in other theaters around the world where they would replace infantrymen leaving the service or being transferred to Vietnam.

The last of us went on to other training assignments. For some it was Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where they would become paratroopers. I was bound for Infantry Officer Candidate School, also at Fort Benning.

All over the country, others were graduating from other training centers. The vast majority of them, from postal clerks to cooks, were being assigned to units in Vietnam. We were building a half million man Army. Only about a third of them were assigned to the combat arms - Infantry, Artillery, and Armor. The other two thirds were needed to support them, to supply them, and maintain their equipment. To provide medical and dental care. To provide transportation and communication. To pay their wages and administer their requests for personnel actions.

More than any other war, it was apparent why all of these support personnel had first learned the lessons of Basic Combat Training. There were no "rear" areas in Vietnam. The war was everywhere. The enemy was everywhere. Every soldier had to be prepared to pick up a rifle and defend themselves on a moment's notice. And at no other battle was this more apparent than the Tet Offensive of 1968, when the men and women in "the rear with the gear" fought successfully against the enemy's battle-hardened warriors, in their first concentrated drive against the Americans. The cooks and clerks of the United States Army held the fort until scattered American infantrymen could respond and annihilate the Viet Cong.

I know that last phrase will unsettle many readers who have been told countless times over the years what a great victory Tet was for the Viet Cong. I'll let you hang in suspense until the next Journal: Vietnam, to learn how badly the news media and the academics misled you.


Chapter Twenty-Four

No Time For Sergeants

STAFF SERGEANT RAMBO had an epiphany during a war game in Germany. He was killed in action while serving as a squad leader. It wasn't a technical call. No umpire walked up and handed him a black card announcing that he was dead. It was sudden and unexpected.

A sniper hiding in a tree killed Sergeant Rambo as his armored personnel carrier drove under it. Rambo was riding in the Track Commander's (TC) seat with his upper body protruding from a hatch on top of the vehicle, just behind the driver's hatch. He knew at that moment that he would die in Vietnam.

The Army gave him a stay of execution by sending him to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, before deploying him to the war in Vietnam. There he served as one of the cadre in my Advanced Infantry Training Company.

I don't remember making Sergeant Rambo's acquaintance until after we had graduated. It's strange when I reflect on the fact that I don't remember any of our training cadre from that school. I remember everyone from Basic Combat Training clearly, even their names. I remember all four members of my training squad, though I can't remember one of their names. The other three were Mort Beech, Bill Downey, and, of course, me. The fourth, as I mentioned earlier, was a Harvard Graduate. I wish I could remember his name. He is the only Ivy League graduate who I ever met who had an ounce of common sense.

Harvard (I'll call him that unless I can come up with something better) drove the sergeants crazy. He always did exactly as he was told. Think about that: "Exactly what he was told to do." He was once told to put a crate of one pint milk cartons and a block of ice into a cooler. That's what he did, and he crushed the milk cartons under the weight of the ice. (He didn't do it gently.)

"Boy, what's the matter with you?" the sergeant screamed. "Don't you have any common sense."

Harvard looked at the sergeant with all the guile of a cocker spaniel puppy.

I was prepared to observe, of course he doesn't. He's an Ivy League graduate. However, I learned that there was a method to his madness. Within a week or two, the sergeants never asked him to do anything. They were afraid of the consequences. In fact, the only consequence was that Harvard never had to do anything while the rest of us worked. I wish I could find even one other Ivy Leaguer that smart.

I digress. We graduated. The four of us were awarded Zippo lighters with the Army coat of arms and engraved to announce that we were the top squad in the training cycle. I had three weeks to wait before Infantry Officer Candidate School began, so I hung around Fort Jackson for one of them. I had already taken two weeks leave between Basic and Advanced Infantry Training, and could only take two more for the year.

There wasn't much to do. The Army was building a replica Vietnamese village at Fort Jackson for training purposes, and layabouts like me were regularly dispatched there to work on it. But, one morning I was called out of formation by Sergeant Rambo along with Harvard for a special detail. Rambo took us to the PX and bought us coffee and donuts. We sat around for an hour, smoking and drinking, and listening to Sergeant Rambo's premonitions of death in combat. Mostly, we were wondering why we were there.

An hour later, Sergeant Rambo glanced at his watch and said it was time to go. He drove us to a barracks building where he borrowed a floor polisher. We loaded it into his truck and he next drove to one of the laundries.

The PX system maintained a variety of shops on the base that were leased to civilians who operated them. This laundry was leased by a German woman who had married another soldier who was then deployed somewhere overseas. Sergeant Rambo had been looking after her in her husband's absence. The Inspector General was due to inspect her shop later that week and we were being loaned to her to help prepare for it.

We spent about three hours cleaning up her place and waxing the floors before Sergeant Rambo returned to pick us up. I remember I had a pleasant time with her. I was able to practice my German (I had been taking an Army correspondence course), and she treated us to homemade strudel (best I ever had).

After we dropped off the floor waxer where we had borrowed it, Sergeant Rambo took us back to the PX for another round of coffee and donuts. There we were admonished to tell everyone that we had been working at the Vietnamese village that day.

In return for his kindness, I offered Sergeant Rambo the wisdom that I had learned from Sergeant Dunne in Basic Combat Training. Dunne was a fatalist. He told us, "If there is a bullet with your name on it, there's nothing you can do. It's fate, and there was no use worrying about it. However, we should do everything we could to avoid all those other bullets marked 'To Whom It May Concern'."

Somehow, I don't think that Sergeant Rambo was comforted.


Chapter Twenty-Five

Heading Home

MY RIDE HOME to Baltimore from Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, was one of the most interesting flights of my life. There was a strike against the airlines at the time and only Delta and a few independents were flying. Most everyone else took a bus home, and I figured that if everyone else was avoiding the airport I might have a chance. Silly.

Columbia Metropolitan Airport in those days was archetypal of those serving small cities in the American south in those days. An elegant terminal sat parallel to a single runway. A single road approached it with lanes divided by a long fountain. When I got inside, I found the place crowded with hopeful passengers, most of them in uniform.

You couldn't travel anywhere in the United States in those days without rubbing elbows with servicemen of every branch. We traveled in uniform to take advantage of cut-rate standby fares. However, looking at the crowd and the lack of any airplanes, I opted for a full-fare ticket. I had some savings that I could bank on when needed.

I waited eight hours at the terminal before a single Delta jet arrived. I had passed the time with other servicemen, drinking beer and playing pinball machines. When the jet pulled up to the terminal, we waited expectantly for all of the passengers to unload. Some collected their luggage and left the airport. But many joined the waiting crowd until a Delta agent climbed on top of his counter and asked, "How many of you are heading west?"

A number of people raised their hands and held them aloft while he counted. He hadn't asked if they were traveling to a specific destination, just a direction. He then asked how many of us were traveling north. I held my hand up until counted with my fellow travelers. There was no need to ask if anyone was headed east. There wasn't anything but water that way. And, he didn't ask for southbound passengers. I can only speculate why.

Those headed west outnumbered us and he announced, "This flight is now bound for St. Louis. Anyone wishing to travel there please come to the desk with your luggage and we'll check in as many as we can."

Those of us left behind watched forlornly as the plane loaded and departed, and we settled in for another wait. No one could tell us if or when another plane might arrive and I was tempted to head for the bus station.

A second plane arrived two hours later and the same scene was replayed. This time, after hands were counted, the Delta agent announced that the plane was headed for Baltimore and I thanked my lucky stars that was exactly where I wanted to go. I had just enough time to call my family and give them our estimated time of arrival at Friendship International Airport, before we were whisked away as another group of stranded travelers watched in dismay.

I had a few minutes at Friendship to watch the same scene replayed as I waited for my father to arrive to pick me up. I wondered why I hadn't seen a Piedmont flight all day.

I had flown on Piedmont Airlines to Columbia, South Carolina, when I started Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Jackson. To be more accurate, I flew on Lake Central Airlines from Baltimore to Washington, D.C. And then on Piedmont from there to South Carolina. The first leg of that trip was on a DC-3, twin engine airliner. It was my one and only flight on that classic airplane. I remember well clawing my way up the aisle to my seat. The plane sat on the ground at a steep incline from the rear to the front because it was a "tail drager." Its undercarriage consisted of two large wheels, one under each wing, and a small wheel at the tail. The seats were woven wicker. My mother turned white as a sheet when she saw it, and I probably didn't help things when I commented that I had been granted a discount for helping wind up the propellers.

We landed at Washington International Airport in Washington – safely, I might add – and taxied to the far end of the terminal. When I got inside, I was directed to the Piedmont boarding gates at the far end. I began walking in that direction and then running when I began to worry that I would miss my plane. I began to believe that the terminal building was longer than the runway. Of course, I arrived in a sweat to learn that my flight had been delayed.

Piedmont flew me to South Carolina on a Convair 440 twin engine airliner. This one sat level on the ground on tricycle landing gear and the seats were upholstered. Surprisingly, the soldier seated next to me disappeared in a cloud of white smoke when the door was closed. The stewardess allayed our fears when she announced that it was only condensation from the cooling system and would disappear when we reached cruising altitude.

Cruising altitude in a Convair 440 is just slightly higher than a piper cub. In many ways, flying at that altitude was like taking a road trip; you got to see the sights along the way. And, we stopped at many of them, including every small airport. Of course, my fellow passenger disappeared in a cloud of condensation every time we landed at one.

Thinking back on those adventures, I believe that I would rather take another flight on a DC-3 or a Convair 440, than ever subject myself to a TSA pat down in a modern airport.


Part IIII: Officer Candidate School

Chapter Twenty-Six

Another Welcome

MY MOTHER HAD one pressing question that she needed answered: Why did I need a box of Kotex sanitary napkins? It was one of many items on the checklist that I had been given when I received my orders to report to Fort Benning for Infantry Officer Candidate School. I didn't know the answer, and she made me promise to write with it as soon as I found out.

My parents drove me to Fort Benning from our home north of Baltimore. There was an airline strike and tickets were hard to come by. We arrived in Columbus, Georgia, the evening before I was supposed to report, so we had a good meal and spent the night in a motel just outside the gates to the post. We drove to the OCS barracks the next morning with directions that were provided by the MP at the gate.

A soldier wearing a blue helmet and white cravat, both bearing the OCS logo, met us outside. He greeted us politely and instructed us to say our goodbyes there at the car while I retrieved my duffel bag from the trunk. He then led me around the side of the building as my parents drove away.

There were other duffel bags lined up on a concrete patio outside the barracks and the soldier had me leave mine with them. He then instructed me to remove all brass insignia from my uniform and place them in a nearby box. "You won't need them anymore," he said. "You're no longer an enlisted man. You're an Officer Candidate."

The first letter that I received from my mother contained a comment as to how impressed she was with the polite young soldier who greeted us. It made me laugh. If only she knew. The blue helmet marked that polite young soldier was a senior candidate. The lowest ranking commissioned officer in the Army is a second lieutenant. Senior candidates were treated as "third lieutenants" and it was their mission to inflict the same pain upon us junior candidates as other senior candidates had inflicted upon them when they were juniors – and then some.

He led me to a room where a table and chair was arranged with a tray and silverware from the mess hall. A strip of white tape was placed six inches from the front edge of the seat. I was shown how to sit on just the front six inches at the position of attention: Back straight, knees together, and hands on lap.

I was shown how to eat a square meal. The fork or spoon was raised perpendicularly from the tray to mouth level and then returned to the tray along the reciprocal route. Chewing did not commence until the fork was returned to the proper position and the hands were back on the lap. The knife remained diagonally across the upper left corner of the tray when not in use.

The senior candidate also told me that each table in the mess hall had four seats, and that candidates had to remain standing behind their seats after arranging their trays and silverware properly until the fourth arrived. When he had his articles properly arranged, he would assume the position of attention and command, "Take – seats," at which time the four sat down in unison.

Lastly, I was admonished to avoid "eyeballing" the candidate seated across from me although we were staring directly ahead. I learned later that this required focusing on a point behind the other candidate. If your eyes met, you began laughing. It was unavoidable.

He then took me into the hallway to demonstrate the proper method of "making way." Whenever an officer entered a hallway in the barracks, the first officer candidate to see him would command, "Make – Way!" At this time, all officer candidates in that hallway had to stand at attention against the nearest wall, with a space just wide enough for a sheet of paper to pass between their shoulders, posteriors, and heels, and the wall, and remain their until the officer exited the hallway.

With this portion of my orientation complete, the senior candidate morphed from a polite young soldier into a bizarre imitation of Sergeant Snorkel from Beetle Bailey comics. It was unexpected. Indeed, up until that moment, I had never experienced harassment at any time during my previous four months of service, in either Basic Combat Training or Advanced Infantry Training. I was shunted into the mess hall where Dante's fourth circle of hell was being reenacted with other senior candidates afflicting other junior candidates with all manner of vexations.

The "real" officers, our cadre, arrived that evening and introduced themselves. We had a captain – the company commander, a first lieutenant – the company executive officer, and one second lieutenant assigned as "Tac" officer for each platoon. I was assigned to the second under Lieutenant John Robb.

We were assigned in pairs to our rooms where we each had a bunk, a wall locker, and a footlocker. All were typical for Army barracks. However, we were also given a desk, chair, and chest-of-drawers. There was a diagram explaining not only the placement of the furniture, but also the exact method of folding and placing all articles of clothing, etc. on display in that furniture. We later learned that the "Tac" officer would make the rounds every day, measuring everything with a ruler, and assigning demerits for every deviation from the standards shown in the diagram.

We had about three days to get everything in order. It took that long to have "Follow Me" patches sewn onto our left uniform shoulders and OCS decals affixed to just about everything else. We were also issued two pairs of brass OCS insignia that we wore on our uniform collars much like a second lieutenant wears his gold bars. We came to hate that insignia. It was constantly inspected by every passing member of the cadre who would issue demerits if it wasn't perfectly clean. Getting the Brasso polishing solution out of every nook and cranny was virtually impossible.

Everything had to be kept impeccably cleaned and polished. We spent hundreds of hours during that six months spit-shining everything, including the floors. It took a couple of weeks, but we built up a sheen on the floors that looked like a mirror. Of course, we never walked on them. We would take our boots off whenever we entered the barracks and carry them around our necks with the shoelaces tied together so that we could climb from one piece of furniture to another to avoid stepping on the floor. It was sometimes necessary where we could reach a foothold on the furniture, but we limited our path to just a couple tiles so we only had to polish those regularly. Of course, the "Tac" officer walked wherever he liked when he inspected and we had to re-polish and buff those tiles.

The Kotex? I know you hadn't forgotten my mother's question. Those were stapled to the bottom of wooden blocks that we placed under the legs of all the furniture. We also affixed them to the bottoms of our footlockers, so we wouldn't scuff the floor too badly when we slid them out from under our bunks.


Chapter Twenty-Seven

RHIP

THERE WERE FOUR paths to a commission as an officer in the United States Army. I say "were" because I cannot speak with authority about present practices. However, in those days, graduates from the Military Academy were commissioned as second lieutenants in the Regular Army. All other commissions were in the United States Army Reserve (USAR). They were obligated to serve at least four years on active duty. It was a fair exchange inasmuch as they had been paid to attend one of the finest engineering schools in the world and their degrees, as well as their commissions, earned them great respect, especially in the job market when they left active duty.

College students who participated in the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) were commissioned as second lieutenants when they graduated. (We referred to them as the Royal Order of Trained Cowards – all in good fun of course.)

Enlisted men found their path to commissions via Officer Candidate School. There were eight at one time. However, by the time of the Vietnam War, they had been consolidated into four that I knew of: Infantry, Armor, Artillery, Military Police, and Signal Corps.

A direct commission to second lieutenant could be awarded to an enlisted or warrant officer for exceptionally meritorious or valorous service on the battlefield. These commissions, also to the USAR, were commonly referred to as "battlefield commissions." Most were rescinded at the end of the war during which they were awarded; however, there were notable exceptions with some of these battlefield commissioned officers rising to great rank.

Direct commissions as captain were also awarded to professionals such as lawyers and doctors. Whereas most commissions in the USAR carried a two-year obligation for active duty, direct commissions to these professionals carried a four-year obligation. When asked why I didn't accept a direct commission as a lawyer, I averred that I didn't want to commit to four years although taking the OCS route committed me to a minimum of three years and going the hard way through all that infantry training. The funny thing is that I ended up serving more than five years on active duty.

Truthfully, I have long harbored a notion that doctors and lawyers, as well as officers in the non-combat arms, should have been warranted rather then commissioned. All warrant officers – there are four grades from Warrant Officer 1 to Chief Warrant Officer 4 – are superior to all enlisted men and inferior to all commissioned officers. Doctors and lawyers, as well as non-combat leaders, could function perfectly well, commanding enlisted men only, to accomplish their missions. They don't need the special rights and privileges enjoyed by commissioned officers as agents of the United States.

During World War II, candidates were hustled through a greatly accelerated program and graduated as second lieutenants, known as "90 day wonders." At the time I attended OCS, the program of instruction lasted twice as long – 26 weeks. Eleven weeks as a Junior Candidate, seven weeks as an Intermediate Candidate, and eight weeks as a Senior Candidate. Senior Candidates were referred to as "Third Lieutenants" – an unofficial rank with the power to make the lives of lower candidates miserable.

I am told that once upon a time commissioned officers were also deemed to be "gentlemen." My commission did not contain that appellation. I was merely commissioned as a officer. However, inasmuch as all officer candidates rose from the ranks, there was no presumption that any of us had been exposed to the manners of a gentleman and, thus, we were taught to deport ourselves as such. We had an unbreakable honor code that allowed neither a direct lie nor a lie of omission, known as quibbling. My fellow candidates elected me to our company's Honor Court where all suspected breaches of the code were tried. The lesson was hammered into us repeatedly that it was better to admit a mistake than cover up one. Men lost their lives and battles were lost whenever an officer lied or so much as quibbled.

I was called upon twice to adjudicate honor code violations. The first came from a complaint filed by one candidate against another. I remember little about it. It was a trivial issue having more to do with a personality conflict. However, the second incident remains clearly in my memory. It arose from our Tactical Officer, Lieutenant Robb, who had me report to his office to read a book report.

Yes, we had to submit a book report. Most of our academic studies concerned weapons, tactics, logistics, and battlefield intelligence. There was some sophisticated mathematics employed in calculating firing solutions for crew-served weapons as well as calculating the spread of gas and radiation from Nuclear, Radiological, and Biological attacks. However, there were a few more mundane assignments such as a book report.

Book reports and I are not the best of friends. It's strange that someone like myself who reads voraciously should suffer with them. I believe the problem dates back to an assignment I received from a high school Spanish teacher who created an approved reading list and told us to select any book from it to read and report on. The book I chose, The Galleon, probably made her list for the sole reason that it had a Spanish-sounding title. I read it simply because it was about a ship. In response to the key element of her book report format: "What did you learn about Spanish culture from reading this book?" I answered, "Nothing." "What was the author's purpose in writing this book?" "To make money." All I learned was that honesty is not the best policy in school assignments.

Fortunately, writing book reports wasn't a requirement in law school.

Thus I had to wonder how I could help Lieutenant Robb with whatever problem he was having with a candidate's book report. Indeed, I didn't understand how it was my problem until he explained that he was concerned that it might constitute an honor code violation. He had me. I had to read it. As I did it was obvious that the candidate didn't know any more about crafting a book report than I. He had simply copied passages from the book he had been assigned to read. It was obvious. It had been written by a British author and he had even copied the British spellings of words.

Lieutenant Robb was concerned that he had plagiarized the book report, an honor code violation. No, this wasn't plagiarism I explained, choosing my words carefully. Robb was an ROTC graduate, a college graduate, and I felt he should know better. It would be plagiarism if he copied someone else's book report. This was simply a poorly written book report.

It was said that you could easily ascertain the path by which an officer earned his commission by observing the number of times they "shook themselves" at the urinal. Those who graduated from OCS didn't bother. I will neither confirm nor deny. I have speculated that those who graduated from West Point may have avoided using their right hands for fear of soiling their beloved class rings.

The path by which a person became a commissioned officer made no difference in the chain of command. We all shared the same privileges. It mattered only in the society among officers. West Point graduates were especially clannish and carried an air of superiority, probably well deserved. ROTC graduates were slightly more egalitarian, but their educations often got the best of them when considering the value of enlisted men. OCS graduates typically had greater respect for and emphasized more with the enlisted men having risen from their ranks. It didn't make them better officers. Indeed, any familiarity between officers and enlisted men might get in the way when making hard decisions.

There was one quality that all second lieutenants shared regardless of how they came to earn their commissions: None of us knew how to lead. We knew how to take orders and give them. We had lots of experience with both. But, leading? That was a horse of a different color. It seems that no military academy, college, or officer candidate school had ever cracked that code. How do you teach someone to lead?

Okay, there were some officers with direct commissions who had risen from the ranks because they had demonstrated great courage and ability leading men in combat. Those were rare. The rest of us had to find our own way through the crucible of war.

My suspicions were confirmed when I reached Vietnam. Most brigade and division commanders - colonels and generations - had gained experience leading combat infantrymen in World War II and Korea. In my estimation, almost all of these I encountered were competent leaders. However, the battalion commanders - majors and lieutenant colonels - had risen to their rank during the years between the wars in Korea and Vietnam. They had little or no combat experience and their leadership styles reflected it.

Battalion commanders most often made the mistakes that cost the most casualties and failed missions. If you read my journal from Vietnam (to be published later) you will learn how I come to have the knowledge to make this statement. In one of the only experiences in my Army career when I won't name names, I watched a battalion commander lead his men into an ambush resulting in the greatest single day loss of men suffered by the 9th Infantry Division, through hubris. In the end, battalion commanders such as this called on their platoon leaders to lead desperate charges in vain attempts to salvage desperate situations inspired by their incompetence. Platoon leaders were expected to cease being leaders and become berserkers. They had to swallow their fear and charge into hopeless situations hoping that their men were following. This is why so many second lieutenants died in combat.

I'm going to end this piece with a piece of oft repeated wisdom that we learned in the Army. I suspect it was heard throughout other branches of the service as well. It began with a question: "Why do officers wear their rank on their shoulders and enlisted men wear theirs on their arms?" The answer was: "Because you can carry more weight -- responsibility -- on your shoulders than you can in your arms."

Platoon leaders carried a lot of responsibility. No matter who issued the command, whether it came from further up the chain of command or he followed the advice of his sergeants, the platoon leader ultimately paid the price when things went south and stood at attention offering respect as his superiors garnered the decorations when things went well. The best a platoon leader could hope for most often, was an award of the Purple Heart for wounds, possibly leading to death, in action against a hostile force.

That was the "privilege" we were training for.


Chapter Twenty-Eight

Devils & Details

THERE WERE RULES in Officer Candidate School. The curriculum was planted thick with them like the cedar forests back home. There were rules governing every aspect of our lives for those twenty-six weeks. What we ate and how we ate it were regulated. What we wore and how we wore it were regulated. How we displayed the clothing that we weren't wearing at any given time was regulated. How we deported ourselves in any situation in the barracks, in a vehicle, at a training site, on the parade ground, anywhere, anytime.

Each Tactical Officer carried a pad of pink demerit slips that he distributed frequently. A loose thread on your uniform would be ignited like a fuse and you were expected to shout "Boom!" when it burnt out.

Now that may seem ridiculous to you. It seemed so to me at the time. Only later did I learn the lesson. An infantry officer has to be detail-oriented. For example, we were provided with a detailed diagram of every drawer and shelf in our rooms. We had to roll every t-shirt to a specific width and diameter. Socks and undershorts were similarly described. After we finally got everything just right, the Tactical Officer would shift one thing just a little, maybe a quarter of an inch. If he came back the following day and found that we hadn't corrected it, we received a demerit. Demerits accrued like head lice and were just as welcome. There were consequences for collecting too many.

When we became infantry officers, we were responsible for details that meant the difference between life and death. Were our men servicing their weapons properly? Did they have enough food, water, and, most importantly, ammunition? The six months that we spent in Officer Candidate School were dedicated to teaching us about weaponry, tactics, and communications. However, it is possible that conditioning us to be detail-oriented was our most important lesson. Although the other lessons may have been forgotten, I never lost that conditioning. I suspect that other graduates of officer candidate school would say much the same thing.

There were no exceptions to the rules. For example, no officer candidate other than a senior was allowed to walk anywhere outside the barracks unless they were in formation (and formations most often moved at double-time). One night I went to the laundry with everyone's tickets. All the others were restricted to study hall until they brought their grades up and I was the only one who was safe academically. Of course, I ran to the laundry. However, on my return, I must have looked like a beast of burden staggering under a load of heavily starched uniforms. We had to "break starch" – change uniforms – sometimes two or three times a day which is why we arrived at OCS with at least ten sets of fatigues. Unfortunately, two senior candidates spotted me, and I was berated for walking. They then helped me transfer my load to my back so that I could honor them with twenty pushups without dropping the load.

Those of us who successfully completed the first seven weeks of OCS and became intermediate candidates could look forward to an occasional weekend pass. I was about to receive my first when our Tactical Officer decided that I should paint a picture of the eagle insignia found on the hat of all commissioned officers in the U.S. Army, on the transom window above the door to his office. (I had a reputation from decorating our platoon halls with my art.) I demurred inasmuch as I expected that I would be off base that weekend. However, I would be happy to do it the following weekend. He looked surprised. "You don't have too many demerits this week?" he asked.

"Sir, no, sir," I replied. We always began every statement to an officer with "sir."

I found my room papered with demerit slips when we returned from training the next day. A signed blank check sat on my desk with a note to use it to buy whatever supplies I needed. I spent excessively, but he was pleased when he saw the result on his return to duty the following Monday.

I believe that my Tactical Officer, Lieutenant John Robb, was somewhat intimidated by me. He was a college graduate as was I, however, I held a post graduate degree in law and he only had a bachelors. Of course, I was older. Maybe "intimidated" isn't the correct word, but I did get away with taking certain liberties. For example, he announced one day that he wanted us to paint our latrine. Candidates were famous for decorating their barracks competitively with other OCS companies. I have heard that some OCS platoons had paneled their Tactical Officers' offices and installed stereo systems. However, this practice was frowned upon by our time at OCS.

Lieutenant Robb put me in charge of the project in recognition of my supposed decorating skills. He told us that we could paint the latrine with any color scheme we wanted so long as I approved. He made a point of telling me that his favorite colors were blue and gold. Ghastly! Another weekend was ruined.

I had to smile when I saw all of the company cadre standing outside the barracks with their mouths hanging open when they returned early that Monday. The sun hadn't risen yet and our latrine glowed with an unearthly orange light. I had selected a tasteful combination of peach and cream. We even painted the inside of the light globes peach to accentuate the effect.

I couldn't wipe the smile off my face even when I heard my name echoing throughout the barracks.


Chapter Twenty-Nine

Close Combat

CLOSE COMBAT TRAINING was elevated to a whole new level in Officer Candidate School when the sheaths were removed from the bayonets. "Don't complain to mama or your Congressman," the sergeant warned us. "If you don't like what we're doing here, you're more than welcome to quit."

The truth is that more than half of all officer candidates quit before completing the six-month course. The tactical officers were scrutinizing us for weaknesses from the moment we arrived at Fort Benning. They were going to break us anyway they could. Physically. Emotionally. Academically. They would find our weakness and pick at it like a sore until we broke. Very few were thrown out.

It's hard to know how anyone will react under combat. I had seen a few men break at the reception center at Fort Jackson when we were only asked to tolerate long lines and tedious forms. I had seen a few more break under the rigors of Basic Combat Training and Advanced Infantry Training. Better that they collapse there than on the battlefield when their comrades were depending on them. How much worse if a leader broke during combat? How much worse if the stress caused him to make even a simple mistake that would cost men's lives?

So, there I stood in a sawdust pit, my feet spread shoulder-width apart and my hands at my side. Another candidate stood opposite to me holding his M-14 pointed directly at my neck, the tip of his bare bayonet just four inches from my windpipe. The sergeant's disembodied voice reached me through a fog. I had eyes only for the eyes of my opponent. He was sweating. He was just as afraid as I.

"Thrust whenever you're ready!" the sergeant commanded.

My opponent whispered, "Are you ready?"

I hesitated. "Yes, but go slow," I said.

"I'll go real slow," he replied. "On three."

"When you say three?"

"I'll say three... and then go."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay. One. Two. Three."

I stepped back just as we had been instructed. I brought up my hand, the one nearest to my opponent, and guided his bayonet past my throat. I grabbed his rifle barrel behind the bayonet mount with the other hand and pushed, dragging him into the elbow that I aimed at his nose bridge. It struck.

"Damn!" he shouted, dropping his rifle and grabbing his nose. Blood flooded freely. "You weren't supposed to hit me," he complained.

"Well, you weren't supposed to thrust that fast," I defended myself.

"That wasn't fast."

"Was too."

"I barely moved."

"No, I'll show you how fast it was," I retorted. It was now my turn to thrust the bayonet at his throat, and I may have thrust it a little faster than he had thrust it at me.

Before we were done, someone might have suspected that we were attempting to kill each other, but couldn't. Damn, we were good.

We trained equally hard in hand-to-hand combat. We trained until it became reflexive. There were no real defensive moves. Just offensive, killing moves. There is no time to waste with parrying on the battlefield.

Although our skills increased, we still respected our teachers. I remember clearly one day, an officer candidate was invited to help one of the training sergeant's with a demonstration. He was handed an M-14 with a bare bayonet attached. He asked what the sergeant wanted him to do. The sergeant replied, "Do whatever you want."

The candidate threw the weapon out of the sawdust pit.

"Why'd you do that?" he was asked.

The candidate replied honestly. "I'm getting rid of that thing before you take it away and kill me with it."

Again, I thought back to those lessons as I wrote about Fidel Castro's revolution in Cuba. His men didn't have military-style weapons until they began stealing them from Cuban army outposts that they overran. The weapons that they brought with them were mostly sporting rifles and didn't have bayonet mounts. I'm sure some brought the knives they used to harvest sugarcane – heavy bladed machete-like knives with hooked ends. During the Cuban Revolution of the late 19th Century, Spanish soldiers feared the masses of peasants who survived volleys and rushed to kill them with their cane knives.

I cannot find any record of rebels during Castro's revolution engaging in close combat with the dictator's army. They usually fought at a distance, much more like snipers than as infantrymen. They didn't close until enemy soldiers surrendered, and it was Castro's policy to treat their prisoners with compassion. Indeed, many were recaptured on multiple occasions, surrendering more easily each time knowing that they would be well-treated.


Chapter Thirty

Crack & Thump

EVERY WEEK WE were given a schedule of activities. One in particular perplexed us: Crack & Thump. We debated the possible meaning of this arcane class name until the last moment. No one could bribe the cadre to give us even a hint.

We were taken to the training area in buses and led down a sloping trail to a hollow. We sat on benches and waited for the class to begin. A training sergeant welcomed us briefly and a rifle shot cracked over our heads. We heard a distant "thump" a few seconds later. There was no mistaking the crack of the rifle bullet breaking the sound barrier as it passed. We didn't realize until told that the thump was the sound of the rifle that fired it.

We were instructed to count the seconds between the "crack" and the "thump" to estimate the distance to the person who had shot at us – about one second for every 300 meters. If fired at by a machine gun, we began counting from the last crack until the last thump.

The sound of the bullet cracking overhead won't tell you anything about the direction from which it was fired. You listen for the thump and point in that direction. That's where you find the shooter.

It takes discipline to use "Crack & Thump" well. The first crack starts the adrenalin flowing quickly followed by the exhilaration that comes when you realize that the bullet missed you. It also isn't very helpful in a fire fight when multiple weapons are firing simultaneously. This technique is most effective when searching for a sniper.

I'm not talking about an "offensive" sniper – one shot, one kill. You've seen them on television and in the movies. They wear a ghillie suit to blend into the terrain. They use high-powered, long range rifles with telescopic sights and silencers to suppress the "thump." They also use special "loads" with smokeless powder and special muzzles to suppress the flash. They infiltrate enemy territory and assassinate key personnel.

I'm referring to ordinary soldiers employed as snipers. Basically, they function as skirmishers hidden in positions forward of their main defensive lines. There serve to detect the approach of enemy forces, and delay them while their comrades get ready. They use camouflage to help secrete themselves – a little grease paint to mask their face and hide reflections, and a few pieces of surrounding flora to break up their outline.

We practiced spotting snipers in many different situations and times of day. However, I disrupted one class with the hiccups. The aggressors were well hidden and we were struggling to identify them one evening. Dinner hadn't agreed with me and I let rip with a belch that could be heard over the entire training area. We were then able to spot them easily. They were giggling uncontrollably. It's a technique that I was loathe to apply in Vietnam.


Chapter Thirty-One

Weapons Training

AN INFANTRY OFFICER not only has to know his weapons, but also the weapons that his enemy uses. Inasmuch as the Viet Cong were equipped with surplus weapons from every war, we had the chance to practice with some real antiques. (When I got to Vietnam, I saw even more that I had only read about or seen in old war movies including the .45 caliber Burp Gun, the British Sten Gun, and others.)

We also had to learn the weapons then popular with Communist forces, most notably the famous Kalashnikov assault rifle – AK47. Interestingly, weapons design seemed to reflect much on the attitude towards the infantryman. The Americans adopted the 5.56X45mm caliber ammunition and a lighter assault rifle so that infantrymen could carry more firepower with less effort. The Communists continued to load their infantrymen down with the much heavier AK-47 and its much heavier 7.62X39mm caliber ammunition, and expected them to carry it without complaint. Although some may argue over the relative ballistic merits of the two calibers, it isn't particularly pleasant to be shot by either.

More importantly, the early versions of the American M-16 suffered from issues that had little to do with its caliber. The early flash suppressor shaped like a three-pronged fork easily caught on jungle vines. Overpowering the ammunition to give it power comparable to the larger caliber M-14 that it replaced as well as the Communist weapons, caused frequent jams during fire fights. These defects were corrected in time, but not until many infantrymen suffered the consequences. Many of the dead were found with their rifles disassembled where they had been attempting to repair them in the midst of fighting. The Communist-manufactured weapons were simple, durable, and reliable. Of course, they had to be. Men who had grown up in more primitive environments didn't have the mechanical knowledge or experience to perform complex maintenance on complex weapons systems. Most Americans were expected to adapt more readily. None of us even had the chance to touch an M-16 until issued one on arrival in Vietnam. We trained on the M-14.

I missed the M-14. I loved that weapon. It packed a real punch and had a much greater effective range. However, as I was to learn later in Vietnam, most fire fights occur at short range and carrying a heavy rifle and an even heavier load of ammunition in the heat and humidity of Vietnam was not pleasant.

One of the more interesting features of the Communist weapons were their lack of safety considerations. This was particularly evident in their sidearms, Whereas the standard American-issued Colt .45 Model 1911 semiautomatic pistol was equipped with three safety mechanisms – half cock, slide safety, and grip safety – the Soviet 9mm sidearm didn't have any.

As surprising as this may seem to those who have never served as an infantryman, gun safety is important, even on the battlefield. It was Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) to clear all weapons when returning to base camps from a combat patrol. I moved to the head of the line when we approached our perimeter and inspected each man's weapons as he passed. He had to show me that it was unloaded, the breech was empty, and then dry fire his weapon pointing in the air. Also, there was a sand-filled bucket outside every building and tent where every soldier was expected to dry fire his weapon before entering. These SOPs were ingrained into us during our training.

Weapons design also influenced infantry tactics when using them. For example, most Communist combat rifles had bayonets permanently attached. We carried ours in sheaths and attached them to the ends of our infantry rifles whenever we expected to engage in close combat. Ours could have sharp edges and theirs couldn't. Thus, we could employ slashing motions with our bayonets at the end of our rifles and they could only stab with theirs.

We also had to learn the effective range and rate of fire for all weapons that we employed as well as our enemy's. Even more importantly, we had to learn how to maintain fire discipline among our men. We heard tales that many fired their entire basic load when they came under fire, and had nothing left to defend themselves when the enemy rushed their position.

Inasmuch as I trained as an infantry officer early in the Vietnam War, we didn't have many trainers with experience from that theater of operations. During our time at the Infantry School, we watched training films produced by Nazis who had escaped Europe following World War II and hired themselves out to fight insurrections in other parts of the world, such as the Philippines. We received Vietnam-specific training in dribbles based on early intelligence reports of Viet Cong tactics. Of course, after Tet, when the Viet Cong had been decimated and the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) began to prosecute the war, I'm sure they had to change the training to adapt to new tactics. I left Vietnam before the NVA had infiltrated as far south as my tactical area of operations in the Mekong Delta. Indeed, the first rocket attack on Saigon occurred the night I left the country. But, that's another story...


Chapter Thirty-Two

Tank Warfare

BY THE TIME we had finished our training in anti-tank warfare, I don't believe that you could have tempted any of us to transfer to the cavalry. (Armor officers wear the crossed sabers that once signified horse soldiers.) We had studied anti-tank rockets, anti-tank mines, anti-tank rifles (yes, there were shoulder-fired rifles that could fire a bullet that would penetrate armor), and anti-tank satchel charges. We also learned that columns of armor were vulnerable to aircraft and artillery.

We laughed at these metal monsters until we were introduced to the then new General Sheridan tank. We were piled onto bleachers facing ruined and rusted armored targets down range. A sergeant introduced the General Sheridan and turned to face a road emerging from the woods to our left and sweeping across the ground just in front of our seats. The monster roared into view and leaped from a low log ramp. It was clear of the ground by a couple of feet just in front of us when its turret suddenly swung in the direction of the targets. It fired before landing and disappeared into the woods on the opposite side of the grandstands as a missile streaked down range and struck its target. It had been traveling in excess of 30 miles per hour during this demonstration.

When it returned, it parked to one side of the bleachers and the tank commander sitting in his hatch atop the turret began blasting nearer targets with 1,000 rounds per minute from his electrically fired .50 inch machine gun. It was a frightening demonstration.

Later, we were taken to a firing range where a platoon of tanks were parked on the firing line. Five candidates at a time entered them, one to each tank and directed to sit in the gunner's seat. When my turn came, the tank commander gave me just five instructions: (1) He directed my attention to a switch labeled "Off," "Main," and "Coax." He told me to switch it to "Coax" to fire the machine gun located alongside the main gun. (2) He told me to grip the yoke in front of me (it looked like an aircraft steering wheel shaped like a "U") and turn it right and left which made the turret swing right and left. The turret turned relatively fast or slower depending upon how far you turned the yoke. (3) He told me to pull back on the yoke and push it forward, thus elevating and depressing the main gun and the machine gun alongside it. (4) He pointed out that the trigger was the button next to my right thumb on the yoke. (5) He had me place my eye to the gunner's sight directly in front of me.

As I looked down range through the sight, the tank commander warned me that a target was approaching from the right at 30 miles per hour and would travel to the left rising and falling with contours of the track it was riding on. "Fire!" he commanded.

The sight provided little peripheral vision and the target surprised me when it first appeared. I jerked the yoke too far to the left and quickly overshot it. A moment later I settled the sight on the target and began hitting it with .50 caliber bullets from the coaxial machine gun. I did better when the target reversed its direction. I kept the target in the center of the reticule smoothly elevating and depressing the gun with the motions of the target. In those brief seconds, I had mastered the thing and blew the target to shreds.

As I walked away from the tank, a thought occurred to me. Yes, I had done well with just a few minutes of hands on training. Imagine what could be done with a well-trained gunner operating it. I wasn't so hasty then to dismiss the tank. None of us were.

As we studied platoon tactics, we learned that a tank is a terrifying weapon on the battlefield if employed correctly. However, it is vulnerable to infantry if deployed without its own infantry to protect it from close attack. Desperate Germans during World War II disabled many Soviet tanks by running up behind them and dropping satchel charges on their rear decks, just over the engine compartments and fuel tanks. Even then, the Soviets didn't seem to learn. Protestors disabled many tanks using the same tactics during the Prague Spring.

Later, as I studied Fidel Castro's revolution, I learned that, again, daring men with satchel charges and command detonated mines, neutralized Batista's tanks and armored cars. I couldn't help including the lessons that I learned in Infantry Officer Candidate School in my novel about the Cuban Revolution, Rebels on the Mountain.


Chapter Thirty-Three

Pogey Bait

THE ARMY PROVIDED a well balanced diet from the four principal food groups: Meats, vegetables, cereals, and dairy. Officer candidates provided for themselves from the fifth: Pogey Bait.

If it didn't come from the mess hall, we weren't allowed to eat it. Simple. No questions. In fact, we had to eat it just the way they served it. I once had to stand on a chair in the mess hall and sing "Take me out to the ball game..." because I had the temerity to place a hot dog onto the bun that was served alongside of it.

In the beginning, we went along with it. However, as we became comfortable with the rules, we began to break them. Our first attempt was a disaster.

One night, we ordered pizza. Two of our platoon met the pizza delivery guy at a water tower near our barracks. They took our money and a clean garbage can to carry the pizza back into the barracks. I don't know how they knew, but our Tactical Officer and the company's Executive Officer walked in before we could take our first bites. They had us carry the pizzas into the latrine and leave them until we were called back. When we returned, we found the pizzas on the floor of the shower room. The cold water was pouring full blast from every shower head, and we were told it was time to eat our pizza. All of it. It was nasty.

Our mail was sacrosanct and our families and friends sent us small treats occasionally. After a few weeks, we were ordered to open any packages that we received with a tactical officer present. If it contained contraband food, it was confiscated. However, we were allowed to keep "special items" that were sent on special occasions. When one of our platoon had a birthday, we all wrote to our families and friends telling them to send treats addressed to that person.

On the date of his birthday, our Tactical Officer called us to his office after training. A stack of parcels covered one wall, waist deep. He had us carry it all to our platoon area in the barracks and then told us to wait in the latrine. When he called us back, we found that he had opened every box and dumped it throughout every room and hallway. We were given fifteen minutes to eat all that we could and told to clean up the rest.

We didn't succeed having a "pogey-party" until our eighteenth week in Officer Candidate School. Almost half of our number had quit by that time, but those who remained understood tactics far better. We ordered pizza and took delivery just as we had on the first attempt. However, we created a diversion to distract the officer on duty while we sneaked the food inside. We prepared hiding places and posted sentries to warn us of anyone approaching so that we could secrete the food without being caught. We had all the windows open to vent the aroma. We enjoyed our pizza without being caught. We were ready to lead men in combat.


Chapter Thirty-Four

Leading From Behind

SOMEONE ONCE SAID "never trust a lieutenant with a compass or a captain with a rifle." Neither is safe to be around. A battlefield is not a safe place to wander around lost, nor is it safe to have the man behind you shooting.

Once upon a time, military leaders actually "led" their men into battle. Even generals mounted their warhorses and rode in front of massed ranks of armed men marching at each other. However, modern American infantry tactics dictate that enlisted men lead the way while the officers lead from behind. This is not a matter of cowardice. Think about it. It's virtually impossible to monitor your forces and correct their maneuvers and actions when they are behind you unless, of course, you have eyes in the back of your head. However, at the time I was in Officer Candidate School, we learned that Israeli lieutenants led their men into battle – literally, they led them. Of course, their platoons used an entirely different set of assault tactics.

An American infantry platoon in the assault advances to the "line of departure" in a file formation, then spreads out in a single rank parallel to the enemy. After artillery and air strikes "soften" the enemy defenses, the platoon advances in one parallel rank towards the enemy's line of defense with the platoon leader following behind to observe the action and make adjustments to take advantage in weak points or fill in when his men fall.

We learned that the Israeli's infantry advanced in a single file all the way to the enemy line with the platoon leader in front. Their goal was to pierce the enemy defenses – to create a hole in them. Each side of the break would then become an unprotected flank that the platoon could attack, spreading out to make the hole larger until the defense crumbled. Whereas an American infantry lieutenant had the life expectancy of a housefly, I can only imagine that his Israeli counterpart must have survived as long as the flame of a match in a hurricane.

Regardless of the tactics and strategies employed, infantry units need someone who knows where they are and how to get where they need to go. It's also important so they can accurately direct fire from artillery and air forces, or request resupply or medical evacuation. Thus, we spent a lot of time in OCS learning Land Navigation. Fortunately for me, I was an experienced navigator and had won several competitions testing my skills navigating at sea. Navigating on the land is very similar. It requires only one additional skill: The ability to interpret contour lines on a flat map and see a three-dimensional view of hills, mountains, canyons, and ridges. Of course, I ended up in the Mekong Delta where there wasn't a contour in sight.

We worked in teams during our early lessons but, before we graduated, we were working individually. We wouldn't be able to navigate by committee once we were leading a platoon in combat.

We learned how to interpret aerial reconnaissance photos as well as how to read maps. Much of the world, even today, has not been accurately mapped. We learned how to use a compass and orient a map. Once a map or photo is aligned with the land (north on the map faces true north) all the features on the map or photo will be arranged around you exactly as they appear on the map.

We practiced both at night and during the day, finding our way from one point to another. The finish line was marked by a series of numbered posts about the diameter of telephone poles sticking up about waist high. The trainers noted the number of the post where you crossed the line after following directions, circumventing obstacles, and crossing uneven terrain. You were graded on how closely you arrived at the post where you were supposed to arrive.

I must have done well. They wanted me to remain at the Infantry School after graduation to teach Land Navigation. It didn't hurt that I once astonished the instructors when I proved that they could accurately determine their location with the aid of only one point of reference. They had been taught that you needed two and by taking a bearing with your compass on each, you would find your location on the map where the two bearings crossed. I showed them how to take a bearing on an object, move to another location and take a second bearing. It was simple then to draw a third line on the map showing the direction and distance you had moved. The three lines formed a triangle. At one corner was the object you had sighted. The other two corners represented your location: One where you had been when you took the first bearing, and the second where you now were.

Unfortunately for the Infantry School and the Land Navigation program, my orders to report in Vietnam didn't allow time for me to stay there and teach.

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Chapter Thirty-Five

The Big Bang

THE WISDOM OF the Army is memorialized in a library of Army Regulations, Training Manuals, and Field Guides. We were given a shelf full when we began Officer Candidate School. As I stored them away in my desk I paused when I found FM 5-25, Explosives and Demolitions. I was in heaven.

We had learned the barest essentials in Advanced Infantry Training: How to insert a detonating cap into an explosive and how to ignite a fuse. Obviously, we were going to learn a lot more in OCS. There were pocket guides to blowing up bridges, radio towers, railroads, concrete embrasures, and more.

My fascination with explosives and demolitions began with a pretty young girl I met in junior high school, Mary Loizeaux. I think every boy had a crush on her. Did I mention that she was very pretty? Her allure grew when her family was featured in a magazine supplement to the Sunday Sun newspaper. They had a trampoline in their house that made her even more alluring. But it was her father who fascinated me even more. He founded Controlled Demolitions Incorporated. You've probably seen their work featured in television news broadcasts of major hotels being destroyed. Now that got my attention. Still does.

I had grown up with a fascination for explosives. I had manufactured my own gun powder and gun cotton. I might have been crazy enough to make nitroglycerin had I been able to get my hands on the ingredients. At least I knew what I needed and how to blend them safely[?]. I wasn't certain that I was going to survive OCS, but I knew damn well that they weren't getting rid of me until after training in explosives and demolitions.

I was very fortunate to be teamed up with a classmate who was deathly afraid of explosives and was happy to have me do everything. I was happy to do it. Fortunately for me he didn't know that military explosives are far more stable than commercial ones. They have to be inasmuch as they are handled in abusive environments such as battlefields where more sensitive ones, like dynamite, might detonate accidentally. I can still see him cringing at a distance as I pounded a lump of composition C4 on a concrete work bench to get it into the desired shape. The stuff you see in the movies is more soft and malleable. It's fake. I once had to pry a coil of detonating cord out of his hand. He had thought it was plastic clothes line when the sergeant sent him to retrieve it from the storage locker.

We learned restraint with explosives. Most people tend to use too much when they don't know what they're doing. For example, I had a friend who I helped clear a field of tree stumps before I joined the Army. His father gave him and his brothers each a plot of land to build houses when they got married. My friend's parcel was covered in cedar trees. His father contracted with a lumber company to clear the trees but failed to negotiate to have them remove the stumps. He decided to use dynamite.

In practice, you need just a small amount – a quarter or half of a stick – to loosen the dirt and then drag the stump out with a logging chain and a pickup truck. However, my friend's father used three sticks with each stump. We went away – far away – when he detonated them. We found his father later under his truck. He was afraid to come out until it stopped raining tree stumps.

The Army also taught us about sympathetic detonations. Most explosives are detonated with the shock from a smaller detonation, such as a blasting cap. However, solid materials can transmit a sufficient shock from a nearby detonation to set off other explosives. I had seen this effect before joining the Army.

A contractor hired an explosives expert to clear an exposed shelf of bedrock so he could expand a commercial park. The expert supervised the drilling of holes for the charges and the contractor then fired him thinking that he could finish the job himself now that the expert had planned everything. He decided to save time by placing the charges in all of the holes thinking to detonate them one at a time. However, the shockwave of the first detonation was transmitted through the rock setting them all off simultaneously. The story that appeared in a local newspaper featured a photograph of a hole in the wall of an office building where a chunk of rock the size of a small car entered the building. Fortunately no one was injured, although a secretary was shoved against a wall as the rock propelled her and her desk backward.

I couldn't help applying my lessons as I wrote Rebels on the Mountain. I knew that there were nickel mines in the Sierra Madres mountains in Eastern Cuba and that the Fidelistas had stolen explosives there. They also stole them from military posts that they raided.

My research showed me that they derailed an armored train on one occasion using explosives, and that they dynamited buildings during their final offensive. It was obvious that they needed someone who knew how to handle them and I provided a fictional character, an engineering student, Juan Tumbas, to fill that role. I couldn't find any extant documents proving me right or wrong.

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Chapter Thirty-Six

Senior Candidates

EIGHTEEN WEEKS INTO the course we became senior candidates. We sent our helmet liners to an auto body shop to have them painted infantry blue. We added blue felt patches under our OCS brass insignia. And, we set out in search of underclassmen to torment.

Yes, it seems mean-spirited to me, too. In fact, we had all sworn as underclassmen that we would be a "better sort" of senior candidates if we attained that lofty station. However, our good intentions were quickly forgotten when the the mantle passed to us. If anything, we were more brutal than those who had preceded us. Don't worry. I'm suffering pangs of guilt even as I write this.

A choice opportunity fell upon us when the commander of another OCS company called our company commander with a plea for help. He felt that his candidates were lacking the inspiration to excel at their studies. We descended upon them like the wrath of God.

The poor bastards never knew what hit them. One moment they were sitting quietly at study hall -- an hour set aside each evening -- when we poured into their rooms. By the time we left, every piece of uniform and equipment was scattered in the hallways. Their floors were scuffed. (Remember, we had to keep them spit-shined.) A few required help extricating themselves from wall lockers.

Unfortunately, revenge fell upon me a few days later when my pilonidal cyst became inflamed. I've had kidney stones and it's pointless to argue which is worse. The pilonidal cyst has been described to me as a birth defect that may never make its presence known. However, it may become infected and fill with... Let's not be too graphic. Suffice it to say that it presses on the coccyx at the base of the spine. I went to the hospital. The doctors lanced it and I expected to go back to duty. Unfortunately, they had other plans. It seems that they wanted to operate to close it permanently.

I waited two days while the issue was debated. My nurse kept me apprised each time she came to remove the packing they were using to keep it open and sterile. I would take a sitz bath and she would repack it. She delighted in the torture telling me that her husband was a junior candidate and she was taking revenge on a senior candidate -- me -- on his behalf. Her story didn't ring true inasmuch as officers aren't allowed to fraternize with enlisted personnel: she was a lieutenant and, as an officer candidate, her purported husband would be an enlisted man.

When the doctors finally came to a verdict, I refused treatment. They returned me to my company with a "profile." A profile in the Army is a doctor's order limiting a person to restricted duty due to a physical condition. My profile included no running, no lifting, no pushups. In other words, none of the things that candidates were required to do every day, even senior candidates.

The company commander told me that I would be removed from the company to rejoin another when I was well again. I went back to the hospital immediately, and requested that the doctors lift the profile. I guess my legal training came in handy. They agreed. They only required that the open wound be redressed every time it became soiled and that a fresh dressing be applied every morning. They recommended that I use a Kotex for a dressing. That was fine by me. I had brought a full box of them to OCS and only used a couple as padding for the feet on the furniture in my room.

The duty of redressing the wound fell to my roommate, Bud Heath. Every morning he had the pleasure of looking at my bare ass. Sorry, Bud, but I appreciate what you did for me.

They expected me to return to the hospital after graduation to have the operation. For some reason, they seemed too anxious to experiment on me. I left Fort Benning before my new second lieutenant's bars cooled from my mother's touch as she pinned them on.


Chapter Thirty-Seven

Escape & Evasion

ESCAPE AND EVASION is a tactic employed by soldiers who have been separated from their units and find themselves trapped behind enemy lines. We practiced it in Advanced Infantry Training, moving at night along a two mile course while drill instructors threw flash-bangs at us. Most of us opted out and walked the road that bordered the training course from beginning to end. We had no such option in Officer Candidate School.

The E&E course in Officer Candidate School was twelve miles over rough terrain. An airborne infantry company was employed to prevent us from reaching sanctuary at the end. They received points for each one of us they caught, and a weekend pass awaited them if they accumulated enough points.

Using roads was a sure way of getting caught. They posted sentries equipped with starlight scopes that permitted them to see in the dark. Jeeps with blackout lights chased anyone foolish enough to stray onto a road.

We were broken up into groups of eight in the late afternoon. Each group was given a live chicken and rabbit to prepare and cook. It was our only meal that day. We were sent on our way when the sun set.

The "aggressor" force was supposed to stay at least a mile from our starting line. However, my group was jumped just a couple hundred yards after we began, and we scattered. I went to ground in the shadow cast by the moon from a large tree. The aggressor stopped inches from where I lay. I held my breath while he looked around, and jumped to my feet and ran when he advanced just a few steps beyond me. We weren't supposed to fight capture, but I wasn't going to submit easily.

We were told that captives were taken to a Prisoner of War (POW) camp to be "interrogated." Boots were taken away and mild forms of torture were inflicted. I later learned that one man was thrown into a pit several times before he discovered the entrance to a tunnel there and used it to crawl past the barbed wire perimeter. He ran the rest of the course bare-footed.

After I was certain that I had lost the aggressor who had been pursuing me, I laid down on the ground and covered my head with my field jacket. I then used my flashlight with a red lens (to preserve my night vision) and studied the map we had been given. There were two checkpoints that we were required to find and check into to earn full points for the test. I charted my course and was about to start when I heard a noise that sounded at first like a locomotive tearing through the forest. It was a scout dog and its handler on my scent. I altered my plan and headed for the nearest swamp. They were going to have to get wet if they wanted to catch me.

Fortunately, it was December and I hoped that the snakes would be too lazy to chase me in that weather. I had seen some twelve foot long specimens of rattlesnakes in those swamps earlier in the year. When I reached the edge of the swamp, I waded right in and didn't stop for more than a kilometer. I then sat on a fallen tree and studied my map to figure out where I was and how I would reach the first checkpoint.

I still remember that night vividly. It was cold and it was wet and I was shuffling my feet to scatter any snakes that had missed the fact that it was December. I stayed in the swamp until I reached a point that I calculated was the base of the hill on which the first checkpoint was supposed to be located. The woods were thick enough that I didn't spot the drill instructors fire until I was almost on top of it. He took my name and I turned back in the direction of the swamp. I would have lingered there for a while to warm myself by his fire, but time was important. We only had so much of it to complete the course for full credit.

I skirted the edge of the swamp between the first and second checkpoints. I wanted an escape route into the water if another scout dog picked up my trail. It was on this leg of the course that I had to cross a road. I laid down and observed it for several minutes before I decided that the faint glow I saw to my right might be a vehicle. I was correct. It came to life as I crawled across the road. I then jumped to my feet and ran to the forest on the opposite side as it raced towards me. I barely had time to dive into the underbrush and make good my escape before three or four men piled out of a jeep and began beating the bushes for me.

My circuitous route ate up a lot of my time reaching the second checkpoint. I decided to take a chance and head straight for the finish point after that. I figured that the aggressors probably had focused their attention between the starting line and the first checkpoint. I guess I was right.

I found a couple other classmates at the second checkpoint and we took off as a group. We even used our flashlights to help find our way as quickly as possible through the tangle. A deuce-and-a-half (two and one half ton truck) waited at the finish point. They had large insulated serving containers with hot chicken and rice soup. I drank two bowls faster than I can write this sentence. When the truck was full, they took us back to our barracks.

Our classmates came straggling in all night while we slept. The next day we got to hear their gruesome stories, especially the ones who had been captured.

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Chapter Thirty-Eight

Airborne Ranger

EVERY BRANCH OF the military services has its elite members. In the United States Army, those are the Airborne Rangers. Inasmuch as both the Airborne and the Ranger schools were based at Fort Benning alongside Infantry Officer Candidate School, we were exposed to their influence and encouraged to seek admission to their ranks.

One fateful day tryouts were announced for Airborne School and many of us signed up. The incentive? Coke and cookies were promised to all candidates who took the exam. We would kill for Coke and cookies by this time. Inasmuch as the "test" was just another physical – running, situps, pull ups, things we were doing every day – it didn't seem like much of a stretch.

We were interviewed by Airborne Instructors as we completed the mandatory exercises, and I knew something was wrong as soon as I approached the desk where a doleful looking master sergeant waited with my medical file open in front of him. "I'm sorry candidate," he began, "but you aren't qualified for Airborne."

Suddenly, I had a vision – no Coke and cookies for me. "Why?" I asked.

"It's your eyes," he replied.

Screw the eyes, I wanted to scream. I wanted my Coke and cookies. Instead, I said, "But, I wanted to go Airborne. I want to kill!"

It brought tears to the old sergeant's eyes, and I began to hope that I would get my Coke and cookies after all.

Actually, I knew that I wasn't qualified for Airborne before I took the test. I had seen my medical file rubber stamped "Vision: Not Qualified Airborne" sometime earlier. I only took the test for the Coke and cookies. I suppose because of my age and, maybe, my education, I had already figured out that it was unnatural to jump out of an airplane with perfectly good landing gear.

But, I overplayed my hand. "We could request an exception," the sergeant suggested. "They might grant it."

Holy crap! He was going to get me into the Airborne School. I had to think fast. I put on a brave face. "No, Sergeant," I replied with a deep sigh. "Thanks, but I'm RA (Regular Army) all the way and rules are rules. They must have a good reason and I wouldn't want to let my buddies down because of my eyes."

I swear there were tears in his eyes, and I got my Coke and cookies.

Actually, I was interested in Ranger School. That was more to my liking. However, without Airborne, there would be no chance of that.

We had visited the Ranger School during our classes to learn about them and their mission. We also had to run their obstacle course. It was nothing like ours.

We had to work for every meal in OCS. We had to queue up at the mess hall before every meal and do chin ups and ten pushups for every chin up that we fell short of the minimum. In time, this became too easy and we began running the obstacle course before meals in addition to the chin ups.

Our obstacle course included the kinds of things you may have seen in movies: Run-Dodge-And-Jump, climbing a cargo net, sliding down a slanted line, running over an A-frame, walking balance beams, swinging across a pond, climbing a wall, flipping over a rolling log, crawling under barbed wire, etc. When that got too easy, we ran it twice.

We were given a week's leave for Christmas towards the end of our course at OCS, and I went skiing with friends. Impatient with the 45-minute wait for the chairlift, I walked up the mountain. OCS had really built up my endurance. Even so, the obstacle course at the Ranger School was a real challenge. In addition to the obstacles, the course was laid out over a couple miles of rugged terrain. So, we had to run up and down steep hills as well as negotiate the obstacles.

The first obstacle was a 6-foot wall. The challenge was that we had to vault over it while carrying our M-14 rifles with bayonets attached. We had never before run an obstacle course while carrying our weapons. It took a lot of coordination to clear that wall without stabbing yourself accidentally.

As we continued around the course, we encountered dummies that we had to attack. They were constructed of 4x4 posts with sections of truck tires and heavy metal hinges. A Ranger Instructor was stationed at each shouting out the technique we were supposed to employ: Vertical Butt Stroke, Stab, Slash, Horizontal Butt Stroke. A Ranger Captain mocked me for not attacking with enough force when I attempted the Vertical Butt Stroke to the dummy's head, but I ignored him and ran on. When I arrived at the end of the course, I found our instructors waving us on. Run it again. Again? I could barely hold my arms up, let alone my weapon.

By the time I arrived back at the bayonet dummy with the captain shouting "Vertical Butt Stroke," I was annoyed. I don't remember clearly what happened, but he followed me through the rest of the course cheering me on. When we got to the end, he was describing what happened.

"He took the head clean off the damn thing!" he shouted.

I what? I looked at my right hand holding the remains of the butt end of my rifle. The stock was sheared away. My right forearm was bleeding from the fragmented end of the stock that had broken off. All I remembered was that the dummy had become that captain.

To be honest, I don't think that I would have survived Ranger School. I struggled with the physical endurance trials throughout the entire year that I spent in Basic Combat Training, Advanced Infantry Training, and Infantry Officer Candidate School. They were nothing compared to the trials that await candidates in Ranger School. Sleeping little more than three hours each night for six weeks. Marching mile upon mile loaded down with seventy pound packs. No, that school is reserved for the best of the best.

The husband of one of my cousins died a few years ago. He had been an Airborne Ranger during World War II (I was the youngest child of youngest children, born during the War). He was wounded during the battle to capture Henderson Field in the Solomon Islands and was recuperating when his unit rescued the survivors of the Bataan Death March. I'm glad that I had that experience at the Ranger School so that I could truly appreciate just how great a hero he and his fellow Rangers really were.


Chapter Thirty-Nine

Broken Hearts

I HAD PLANNED to have my girlfriend come to Fort Benning for my graduation from Officer Candidate School. I even planned to propose. But, those plans went up in smoke when I received what was to be the first of her "Dear John" letters to me.

I can see your expression now. There was more than one Dear John from her? Yes. Why would he even admit to being that stupid? I'm a writer. Honesty is a job requirement. Did you learn from your mistake? No. I married her. Did it last? Do you really have to ask?

Graduation included a dance. A local organization arranged for "dates" for those of us without one, but I declined. I wasn't in the mood. I'm surprised they let me get away with it. It seems that it was just another teaching opportunity, to make "gentlemen" out of us.

All of my classmates who were assigned "dates" started a pool. Whoever had the ugliest girl won. That doesn't sound very "gentlemanly," does it? Now don't jump all over me. Remember, I wasn't part of this. Have pity. I was heartbroken.

Many who had wives and girlfriends, and hadn't received a "Dear John," had their own dates. Some more than one. I better explain that.

Candidate Cruz had more than one potential date. First, forgive me for naming people using their family name only. I know that I have provided given names in a few cases such as Bill Downey and John Robb. These are exceptions to the rule that we most frequently referred to each other by the name that appeared on our uniform name tags. Given the drop out rate in OCS, many candidates disappeared before we had time to become acquainted.

But, I digress. Cruz had two girlfriends. Had I known about my girlfriend's inconstancy, I would have kept a spare, too. Actually, I don't think Cruz had that problem. It seemed that both girls were true to him and he simply couldn't make up his mind between them. The truth is, they were both knockouts. Strange. Cruz wasn't, that is as men go.

I became more familiar with Cruz than many others because he had been assigned to me by Lieutenant Robb as a "project." Cruz was struggling academically, and Robb decided that he just needed a little tutoring. I guess you're wondering how that squares with the mission of the cadre to find our weakness and exploit it to make us quit. Well, I wondered the same thing. I guess Cruz's charms prevailed over men as well as women.

Again, I must digress. Cruz had two girlfriends and I sympathized with his plight. He showed me pictures and, as I said, both were knockouts. One was a Puerto Rican-American and was a Latin beauty (please conjure up your own image). The other was a Eurasian, a truly exotic beauty. And Cruz was a short lump of a guy with a heavy Brooklyn or Jersey accent. Seriously, I just paused here at the keyboard picturing him and the photos of those two girls in my mind, and I still don't get it.

And, I didn't have a date.

I was enjoying a rare quiet moment in my room alone reading when my roommate arrived with a request from Lieutenant Robb. His date wanted to meet me. She had been impressed by my artwork. Several cartoon cells I had drawn were framed and hung in the first floor hallway between the doors to the offices of the company cadre. So I had to get dressed up in my Class A uniform just to put in an appearance.

"Lieutenant Robb said that you shouldn't salute him," my roommate warned.

"Why?"

He just shrugged and went back to the dance while I got dressed.

You can probably imagine how the scene played out if you have been following this blog regularly, and you'd be wrong. I didn't salute. I started to. My hand started up while I kept my eyes on his and he scowled as he began to respond. Instead of saluting, I stopped myself when my forearm was waist high and reached as though we were going to shake hands. His scowl deepened and he responded. But, before he could grab my hand, I restarted the salute. He saluted while I scratched my head. His date was thoroughly confused.

We walked the halls together as she complimented my drawings. After the last one, I saluted and turned on my heel to return to my bunk. It was a small revenge for the torments he had inflicted upon us for six months.


Chapter Forty

Uniforms

ENLISTED MEN ARE issued uniforms. Officers buy their own. Our company commander in Officer Candidate School was a frugal man and suggested that we purchase cheap replacements for the uniforms that we were issued. We could then turn these in when we were commissioned. We could then keep the good ones we were issued and save some money. All we needed was a tailor to sew the black strips on our sleeves and pants legs – that was the only difference between officer's and enlisted dress uniforms. Brass insignia took care of the rest. Inasmuch as a second lieutenant only earned $303 per month in those days, it was a welcome suggestion.

Unfortunately, a new captain took command of our training company close to graduation and he was appalled to learn that we hadn't ordered custom-tailored uniforms. Representatives from a uniform company arrived shortly thereafter and we lined up to have our measurements taken and our checks cashed. As I remember, we each spent almost $500 for new Class A (green) dress uniforms and Dress Blues (which I wore on only one occasion – to have a picture taken at home with my brother).

Of course, after my tour of duty in Vietnam, I was assigned to Hawaii where dress whites were the order of the day. Unless you were assigned to duty that required frequent social engagements, the dress whites were required only one day each year. On New Year's Day, officers were expected to visit the Commanding General's home. Inasmuch as he wasn't inclined to greet each of us personally, we were only required to leave a calling card in a small silver tray left by the front door for this purpose. Only one officer was excused from this duty – the duty officer.

The Duty Officer represents the Commanding General at night and during holidays. Anything requiring immediate attention is referred to the DO who either defers it until normal duty hours or contacts the appropriate on call officer. He may even perform some narrowly defined functions on behalf of the Commanding General. I always made sure that I was the duty officer on New Year's Day and thus saved the cost of buying a set of dress whites.

Commissioned officers received a stipend to pay for meals. I believe that it was about $27 per month in those days. We could eat our meals at the company mess hall if we turned it over to the mess sergeant each month. Otherwise, we were on our own. You can only imagine how far $27 went each month, even in those days.

Interestingly, we also had to pay for our meals when a patient in a military hospital. We had to pay for them for our dependents as well. Although there was no charge for medical care, I was billed approximately $8 when my first son was born at Tripler Army Medical Center in Hawaii for the meals his mother ate while there. I had three children born in civilian hospitals in later years and was charged a bit more.

Free housing was provided for commissioned officers as well as enlisted men. Generally, it was adequate, although I had to wonder since I learned that Air Force officers forced to live on Army posts received a stipend for tolerating substandard accommodations.

The best deal was TDY (Temporary Duty) assignments. I was sent to Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana for six weeks following graduation from Officer Candidate School. When I arrived, there was just one room remaining available in the BOQ (Bachelor Officer's Quarters) and I excused myself just long enough for someone else to take it. I then joined up with three other new lieutenants and we rented an apartment in nearby Indianapolis for the six weeks. Given that we each received a housing allowance of about $150 per week, I not only paid my share, but also rented a car and had more than six hundred dollars left over to refill my savings account depleted from buying those damn uniforms.


Chapter Forty-One

Chairborne Ranger

YOU PROBABLY WONDER what sort of an infantry officer I became after all this training. I didn't. I was commissioned into the Adjutant General's Corps. What's that, you ask? Don't feel badly. I didn't know either, until it was too late.

The Adjutant General's Corps (AGC) sounds impressive. The word "General" gives it a feeling of importance. It isn't. The AGC superintends all personnel functions in the Army. That's right. I went through all of that infantry training, almost a year's worth, to become a Rear Echelon Mother F**ker (REMF). I wore what was infamously known as the "shield of shame" instead of the crossed rifles of an infantry officer that I had earned. And if that isn't depressing enough, we were also responsible for delivering the mail, marching the band, and operating post theaters and craft shops.

Okay, I'm being hard on myself. These were all important functions, especially delivering the mail. Mail was one of the greatest morale boosters to young men in combat far from home. Someone had to do it. Indeed, the vast majority of soldiers never see combat. They support the combat arms – Infantry, Artillery, and Armor – with everything they need to move, shoot, and communicate. Without these troops, the battle would be lost. However, it seems a waste of all that infantry training to post me to the rear to shuffle papers.

I suppose that I was chosen for service in the Adjutant General Corps because of my age and education. However, with a degree in law, posting to the Military Police would have made more sense, wouldn't it?

The full import of the assignment didn't hit me until I reported to, Colonel Bell, the G1 – the member of the general staff responsible for all administrative matters – for the 9th Infantry Division. Opening my 201 (personnel) file, his eyes lit up when he saw my MOS (Military Occupational Skill) listed as 1542 – Platoon Leader. They were always short of qualified platoon leaders. However, his gaze dimmed when his sergeant leaned closer and pointed out that another MOS was listed: 2210 – Personnel Officer – and that I had been assigned to the division to serve in the Adjutant General's Office. He shrugged and ordered his sergeant to escort me to their offices. Although I served Colonel Bell well during my year in Vietnam (he often came to me bypassing the AG to get things done), I never forgot his disappointment that day.

Still worse is the sense of guilt that I bear to this day – survivor's guilt. My classmates went on to serve as infantry officers while I braved paper cuts on their behalf. I even had the horror of writing to one of their young wives to announce his death in combat. I met her when her husband came to tell me that our Tactical Officer wanted to see me at our graduation dance. He brought her to our room when he came with the summons.

We were marched to a classroom at 06:00 (6 a.m.) on the day of our graduation to be sworn in. We had been discharged from enlisted service the day before. Thus, we were civilians for twenty-four hours.

The father of one of my classmates was an Army colonel and he had the honor of swearing us in as second lieutenants. And to think, just the day before, many of us couldn't even spell "lieutenant." The battalion sergeant-major saluted each of us as we exited the classroom. We returned the salute and handed him a dollar as is the custom with your first salute. The money was used for a party for the enlisted cadre who had supported us. Maybe we should have given more. A little less than half who began with us graduated and his party fund couldn't have been that large.

Very few failed Officer Candidate School. The vast majority quit. Our tactical officers found our weakness – physical, emotional, or academic – and preyed on it during the entire six months trying to make us quit.

I still remember that day vividly. I ran back to the barracks after we were sworn in to get ready for the graduation ceremony. My feet barely touched the ground for more than a mile. A note waited for me commanding my presence at the post finance office to square away a discrepancy in my records. I borrowed a Corvair from a classmate so that I could get there and back quickly.

When I got into the car after taking care of business at the finance office, I reached for the gear shift lever and it was missing. There was an automatic shifter on the dash. Strange. I could have sworn that it had a manual transmission. As I drove away, I saw another Corvair of the same color. I stopped and looked at it momentarily, then backed up, parked and locked the car I was driving. I discovered the other car had a manual transmission and the key worked. That's the one I drove back to the barracks.

The ceremony featured an audio visual production extolling the Infantry, Queen of Battle. We then stood and repeated the same oath of office that we had taken earlier, and walked across the stage one at a time to collect our commissions. Later, my mother pinned on my new gold bars at the base of the Follow Me statue outside Infantry Hall. The irony didn't escape me as I was wearing the "shield of shame."

I rode home with my parents. I didn't feel like hanging around. Our Tactical Officer, John Robb, had invited our platoon to his place for drinks, but the guilt at leaving the infantry was already gnawing at my conscience. I wanted to avoid them.

That guilt led me to do many stupid things in Vietnam. But, that's another story, told in another journal.

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Chapter Forty-Two

Epilogue

SIXTEEN WEEKS TO become an infantryman. Twenty-six weeks to become an officer. Three trials dogged us through all of the training: Physical endurance, emotional endurance, and academic achievement. I doubt that it's much different today. To be sure, the weapons systems are far more sophisticated than those we fought with, and they require greater technical knowledge. But, the fundamental mission of infantrymen and the men who lead them in combat must remain the same: Move, shoot, and communicate to destroy the enemy or his will to fight and, ultimately, occupy and command the battlefield.

We had to succeed in all three trials to graduate. The only difference was that we had the help of our cadre to become infantrymen. In Officer Candidate School, the cadre sought out our weakness -- we all had at least one -- and exploit it to see if we would quit. We were all there voluntarily and quitting was an option.

No one was allowed to quit Basic Combat Training. Those who failed were recycled until they succeeded or demonstrated that they could never succeed because of physical, mental, or emotional infirmity. Sometimes, the pressures of training exposed conditions that hadn't been discovered during pre-induction physicals. Some who passed aptitude and intelligence testing with marginal scores were discovered to lack the ability to learn the basic skills of soldiering. These received medical discharges or discharges for other than honorable service.

Those who failed Advanced Infantry Training might be reclassified to another Military Occupational Specialty if additional training and testing failed to lift their scores.

As I mentioned early in this Journal, I saw men fail at all stages. Some even failed to negotiate the pressures of the Reception Center. However, the most spectacular failure I experienced came in Officer Candidate School.

Each OCS company had two chains of command. A student chain of command paralleled the official one. We were rotated through it to help acquaint us with the activities and responsibilities of command while the cadre coached and observed our performance. At one point, the candidate serving as Student Executive Officer lived in the room opposite mine. He had been struggling with his responsibilities for several days and was temporarily relieved of them. I stepped in to help out but the cadre insisted that he remain XO and work out his problems. One evening as I headed for the latrine I glanced into his room and saw him staring blankly as he cleaned his rifle. He was muttering to himself and I paused to listen.

"Lieutenant Robb and the others will see that I'm a really great leader," he repeated to himself several times. "Jesus has told me that I am a great leader."

I went to the orderly room and reported his behavior to the Duty Officer who went to see for himself. He tried engaging the candidate in conversation but was ignored as he kept muttering to himself.

Medics arrived shortly thereafter, and the candidate was removed to the hospital. We never heard of him again.

It's a tragic outcome to a young man's life but better that he succumb there than on the battlefield when others are depending on him.

I wish I had kept a diary. Trust me. I am just as amazed as you probably are by the details I can remember of events that occurred more than forty-five years ago. The names and faces I remember are even more startling to me. There are people I met just last week or last month who I can't remember. I suppose that some people are simply more memorable.

Of course, I can never forget our school song which we had to sing frequently.

"Far across the Chattahoochee [river], to the Upatoi [creek],

Stands our loyal alma mater, Benning School for Boys."

"Onward ever, backward never,

Faithfully we stride,

To the ports of embarkation, Follow me with pride."

"We love it here, we love it here,

You bet your life [ass], we love it here."

You can bet your ass I remember that.



Want more?

Vietnam: A Soldier's Journal by Jack Durish is available on Smashwords

Jack tells the story of his tour of duty in Vietnam during the war that tore America's heart in half. It is a tale of his adventures and misadventures while serving in the rear echelons of the 9th Infantry Division. This telling of the Vietnam story is not politically correct, just true.

Rebels on the Mountain by Jack Durish is available on Amazon.com

The Cuban Revolution comes to life in these pages..."

"A mature and fascinating novel..."

"A revolution in storytelling..."

On New Year's Eve, as 1958 drew to a close, Fulgencio Batista, the President of Cuba, said "Adios" to his assembled government. Early the next morning, he and his family as well as a few close staff members departed the island nation taking with them most of its accumulated wealth, and leaving its people at the mercy of a band of rebels racing towards the capital. Although just ninety miles offshore from the southern doorstep of the United States, few Americans knew or cared about these events. They would come to care, deeply care in the years that followed. Still, fifty years later, the rebel commander who led the revolution, Fidel Castro, is an enigma. Although Jack uses fictional characters to expose and explain Cuba, its leaders, and its revolution, the scent of reality is strong within the pages of Rebels on the Mountain.



## About the author...

Jack Durish was born in Baltimore in 1943, he has lived to witness the events in Cuba from their beginning until today. A graduate of law school, Jack has the skills of a researcher needed to explore the social, economic, and political history encompassed in this story. As a former soldier and sailor, he has the practical skills to separate fact from fiction when old warriors spin their tales of revolution and battle.
