Chapter 17

STRENGTH TO BATTLE…IN HIS YOUTH.

(Summer 1968, U.S. Army Airborne training at Ft. Benning, Georgia, 3 weeks. Followed by Marine Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia, 6 weeks)

My landlady, Mrs. Taylor, did not have family guests coming this summer. Neither did another student ask to live in my room during the summer. So that kind grandmotherly lady allowed me to leave all my belongings in my room, and also allowed me to lodge there for free several days that I was in Auburn during the summer. She was most gracious to me.

As soon as Spring Quarter ends, I drive to Mr. Mars’ house in Birmingham to do all the roofing work I can before soon reporting to Ft. Benning (in 3 weeks or so), to parachute out of airplanes. While roofing, I also go to Daddy’s house 1 or 2 weekends to visit home folks.

No longer will I do roofing work for periods of 3 to 7 months at a time, as I have done several times in the past. The remaining few times I will do roofing for Mr. Mars will be far shorter periods of up to 3 or 4 weeks at a time. I welcome that!

Just 2 or 3 days after I arrive at the Mars’ house from Auburn, Robert (Bobby) Kennedy got shot on Thursday the 5^th of June. That day, I was working on a roof with Mr. Mars. We heard sketches of the news from people around us as soon as it happened. Upon returning to the Mars’ house at the end of the day, as I walk into the house Mrs. Mars says, “If he does live, he will be severely handicapped, physically and mentally.” Robert Kennedy died a few hours later. It was a sad time for our nation, less than 5 years after his older brother, John, was shot and killed.

Come time to report in at Ft. Benning, I drive to Auburn to get my written orders for Army Jump School from the Navy ROTC office on campus. I meet outside that office building on a Sunday morning with 4 other classmates who are also going, and I ride with classmate Fred the 30 miles or so over to Ft. Benning that Sunday afternoon, leaving my little Falcon parked at Mrs. Taylor’s house. The other 3 guys come to Ft. Benning in 1 or 2 cars. We process in, are each assigned a bunk in 2 different barracks, and very early the following morning (Monday), we start Airborne training.

There is much calisthenics at the start, consisting of running, pushups, sit-ups, and such. The entire course is only 3 weeks long. The 1^st week is mainly calisthenics, and jumping off low platforms about 4 feet high onto soft ground to practice our parachute landing falls, rolling when I touch the ground to distribute the shock of the impact to various body points (bottoms of feet, side of legs, and side of back, and lastly, the backside of one shoulder, tucking my helmeted head so as not to bump my brain against the ground).

Next, I strap on a bungee-like harness numerous times and jump off higher platforms, imitating exiting the aircraft in my jump. In this training, I never touch the ground, but bounce up and down on the bungee line attached to a “clothesline” and go rolling down the “clothesline” a ways.

The 2^nd week I train on the high towers, 100 feet (or more) high. On the ground, each time I strap on a parachute that is already spread out in a metal ring. A long cable is attached to the center of that ring, and a winch pulls it up to a metal arm protruding out horizontally at the top of that high tower. The sergeant on the ground orders me (thru the speaker at the top of the tower), to unfasten my safety line attached to the ring. The winch operator then speeds the ring the short remaining distance to the very top, which jolts the parachute free from the ring. Thus, I then float freely under the parachute, to the soft ground 100 feet below, in the same manner I will float down next week when I jump from an airplane.

Those 2 phases of training were a week each, 5 days a week. We start early each morning. Long lines of trainees form at the chow hall at each meal. We are required to eat each meal in 3 to 4 minutes, and then quickly get out, so that soldiers following us will have a place to sit in the crowded chow hall.

The southern Georgia summer humid heat is most fatiguing. Exposed flesh (neck) gets sunburned, and the harness straps digging into our bodies rub those areas raw, causing rash, and such. Daily, we march long distances to each training area in addition to much calisthenics. These first 2 weeks of Army Airborne training (my very first active-duty military duty, and totally unnecessary) turned out to be the most strenuous physical training I would endure my whole time of active duty, which was more than 5 and half years.

We Navy midshipmen stay in old wooden barracks like Army enlisted men do. But we don’t stay in the same barracks buildings with them, because we were higher ranking. We stay with midshipmen from other universities, and from the Naval Academy. I think there are also some Air Force cadets (from Air Force ROTC units, and from the AF Academy) in our barracks. We have very little time to enjoy chatting with each other in the evenings. Our uniforms and boots get filthy each day. In the evenings we shine boots, launder socks and underwear, and wait in long lines at the nearest base laundry and dry cleaning to put in today’s dirty uniform and get out the clean uniform we put in dirty 2 days ago. Thus wise, we cycle thru 3 sets of utility uniforms, each morning, donning a crisp, clean uniform for morning inspection.

In addition to Jump School being the most strenuous of all my military training, here I had to endure longer waits in longer lines than in any other phase of training. Also, never again in the military, will I be made to eat each meal so fast (finish in 3 to 4 minutes, often with sweat dripping from my face as I hurriedly ate, especially at the noon meal).

It’s difficult to sleep well and rest well, because it’s so hot inside the barracks all night. No air conditioning. During sleeping hours, one guy is always on “fire watch”, walking thru the halls, ready to scream “Fire” to awaken the others so they would not burn to death if the old wooden barracks catches fire. “Fire Watch” duty rotates to the next guy each hour. My duty time came up 3 or so nights a week. (I sleep 5 nights weekly in that sweltering barracks, Sunday thru Thursday.) During the 5 weekdays of these 3 weeks, there’s practically no time to enjoy life, except for the vain pride and joy of becoming a paratrooper!

Upon being dismissed for the weekend on Friday evening of the 1^st week, I ride back to Auburn with Fred. My Falcon is parked at Mrs. Taylor’s. I lodge in my comfortably air-conditioned room in her house till Sunday evening, and eat for free at the girls’ dining hall those 2 days. I help a little in the cafeteria (volunteer). But they are so good to let me eat there (essentially as a guest), when I’m in town periodically. That’s a great blessing! I can take my time eating here in the comfortable air-conditioned cafeteria, amongst many nice Southern Belles. I attend church on Sunday, and rest and recuperate much these 2 weekend days, being greatly fatigued.

Because I am now a little familiar with Ft. Benning, I drive my own car back there on Sunday evening for the 2^nd week of training, and come back to Auburn in my car for that 2^nd weekend. After 5 weekdays of sergeants yelling at me all day during training and pushing me to the limit in the humid heat, it’s such a welcome reprieve to then relax and rest 2 days at Mrs. Taylor’s house and in the cool cafeteria, leisurely eating delicious meals with those sweet girls (no sergeant yelling “Time’s up!” 4 minutes into my meal).

The 3^rd and last week of Airborne training, is making 5 jumps out of airplanes. It’s a quite relaxed week (compared to the previous 2 weeks) with little calisthenics and marching, not physically demanding, but now demanding courage. We spend much time sitting and waiting our turn to board the plane, to fly up and shortly jump out. My 1^st and 2^nd jumps are out of an Air Force C-141, a quite large jet transport.

“Paratrooper Richard, were you scared?”

‘Scared enough.’

On each of the jumps, I feel immense relief upon feeling the “jerk” of the opening parachute, and then looking up to see the canopy formed perfectly round, above me (no rips, tears or holes in it). After exiting that noisy jet, quietly floating down to the ground feels so serene and pleasant.

I make my following 3 jumps from a smaller prop motor transport plane built mainly for airborne training use. I think its “number” was the C-119. I am more at ease, jumping from the smaller propeller plane, less scared than jumping from the large jet transport.

Typically, we make one jump each day. And after completing my 5^th and final jump, my heart is filled with thanksgiving to God for keeping me safe the whole time. They start a new class every Monday, and graduate the oldest class every Friday. Thus, for each of the 3-weeks duration, one of the 3 classes is in each of the 3 weekly, progressive stages of training.

During our 1^st week of training, a rumor circulated among us trainees, saying that a jumper that week made a weak short exit from the aircraft’s door, thus hitting his head against the side of the aircraft. It knocked him unconscious. His legs swung up and his feet entangled in the shroud lines of his parachute (which opened automatically from its static line hookup), causing him to land almost upside down. He was paralyzed from the waist or from the neck down. That was the entire rumor. May have been true. May not have been true.

I assuredly know that Almighty God was most merciful and graceful to me to keep me completely safe during that dangerous training. Thank Thee, My Precious Sweet Lord Jesus.

The commanding officer of that Airborne Training School at Fort Benning was an outgoing, gung-ho, slender, physically fit, feisty, likable Army colonel who “mixed” with us as much as his busy schedule permitted, I guess. He was great! On my 4^th or 5^th jump, he boarded our plane (to mix with us) and jumped first and alone. Then our plane had to make another pass for the 18 or so of us trainees on board to jump out one after another in one pass.

That colonel highly entertained us aboard the plane the few minutes we were together before he jumped. He didn’t abide by the many rules we trainees had to obey, like “seated with seat belts buckled” until ordered otherwise. About as soon as the plane lifted off the runway, he unbuckled his seat belt and walked up and down the narrow aisle between the 2 side rows of us as we sat seated and buckled up. He jested and joked. He hooked up his static line and then purposely, incorrectly, crossed it across his neck, which would be a most harmful way to exit the aircraft. He screamed at us, “Is this the right way?”

“NO!” We all scream back at him over the engine noise.

He kept up such monkeyshines till the plane got over the jump zone, and then out the door he bounded. The static line was not across his neck now, but rather properly positioned. His “act” fired us up to make our jump with vigor.

It felt rewarding to receive Army Airborne Wings (parachute wings) at the short graduation ceremony (outdoors near the drop zone) that 3^rd and final Friday. That monkeyshine colonel made a “pep rally” short speech, and soon each of us got our Airborne wings. From now on, I will wear them on the left breast side of my uniforms at Navy ROTC at Auburn, and then as long as I am on active duty in the Marines. I was elated with the pride of life (I John 2:16), that it gave me to be a qualified paratrooper.

After graduating from Jump School on Friday, I drive the short 30 miles to Auburn to spend an elated, restful weekend on campus. In the dining hall, I tell everybody of my daring feats at jump school. A few of them were somewhat impressed, but not as impressed as Vain Me wanted them to be.

On Sunday afternoon or evening, I drive on to Mr. Mars’ house in Birmingham, and work for him about 3 weeks till time to go to the 6 weeks of training at Marine Officers’ Candidate School at Marine Corps Base, Quantico, Virginia. I drive to Daddy’s house near Vernon, and leave my car there for my sister, Janiece, to use while I’m away. I do not want to drive that little Falcon on such a long trip to Quantico.

I choose to go by train from Birmingham. My sister’s high school classmate and friend (Charles) is going to Birmingham the day I need to catch the train from there (a Sunday). So, I enjoy the ride with him in his car from Vernon. He takes me to “sleepy” Birmingham train station, commenting on how busy a hub of travelers the train station was up to about 20 years ago, before air travel stole the show. Previously I had picked up my military written orders at the ROTC office at Auburn. So, with those official orders and one suitcase, I thank Charles and board my train about mid-afternoon on Sunday.

(Somewhere along the road of life, by now someone has given me a used brown suitcase. I would not dare show up for my Marine Corps “Boot Camp”, carrying my clothes in a cardboard box. I would be harassed to no end.)

This is my 1^st time ever, to ride a train (at 22 years of age).

“So, you flew in airplanes, and even jumped out of airplanes before ever riding in a train? Amazing!”

‘Truly amazing!!’

I recall my 1^st quarter at Auburn what talkative Freddy (in the same rooming house) had once said. “Railroad tracks mostly go thru the unsightly industrial areas of towns and cities, and otherwise mostly thru woods and forest. Not much for sightseeing.” I now view the dull reality of Freddy’s informative speech.

This was back in ancient days before AMTRAC. This slow train went from Birmingham, Alabama thru Atlanta, Georgia, and then headed toward the eastern seaboard and up the coastal area to Washington, D.C. or to New York City. I bought the cheapest train ticket. No sleeper car at night. Thru out the night, I doze sitting up, or briefly lying down on the bench seat. I don’t buy much to eat for supper or for breakfast the next morning, because food served on trains is somewhat expensive. The train arrives at Quantico station (just a few miles short of Washington D.C.), about 9 AM the next morning (Monday). I have never before been this far away from my boyhood home.

I remind the train conductor that I want off at Quantico. He assures me that he is aware of that. Nearing Quantico Train Station with the train slowing, we pass alongside PT fields on the Marine base where I see guys like me doing calisthenics. I am the only passenger to alight at Quantico. When the train stops, the conductor alights, places the wooden steps onto the ground in front of the train door where I am standing, and shouts “Quantico!” I alight. He takes my suitcase, places it on the concrete, puts away the wooden steps, boards the train, and the train departs. No one boarded this train here at Quantico.

A Marine corporal (driver) is waiting there with a “cattle car” to see if any Marines arrive on this train. (A “cattle car” is a long van-like trailer with wooden benches down each side of its interior, pulled by a military truck, used for hauling military personnel, similar to the way cattle are hauled.) I was the only bull Marine to be hauled this time. As I ride alone in that large van, it seems like “overkill” to use such a large vehicle. He takes me to the “company” office where I process in by handing my written orders to the company gunnery sergeant. He tells me I’m assigned to 5th Platoon and directs me to its barracks, the last Quonset hut in this company’s row of Quonset huts. I walk the short distance to it with my suitcase in hand and enter the barracks. No one is inside. Quiet inside.

Upon alighting from the train 30 minutes or so ago, I tensed up and braced myself for the fierce storm I expect to immediately hit. Many human groups that vainly pride themselves on being elite (fraternities, military units, and such), initiate their inductees by debasing and humiliating them to the greatest extent possible. Right now, I enter that debasing initiation into the elite USMC. I was expecting it and dreading it, wondering exactly when it would start.

Here, our “trainers” will yell and scream at us and call us every filthy name they know (and these Marine trainers know a lot of filthy names). My upperclassmen fellow Marines at Auburn warned us much about that, after they returned to campus from this Officers’ Candidate School. I know to expect it, and naturally I dread it. When the “cattle car” driver came up to me at the train station, I expected him to do such. He did not. When I checked in at the “company” office, I expected the company gunnery sergeant to yell and scream at me and curse me. He did not. But now the anxiously awaited storm suddenly hits in full fury!

My platoon “drill sergeant”, Sergeant Dunn, walks from somewhere nearby to the front door of this Quonset hut, looks inside for any new arrival, and upon seeing innocent little ol’ me, he puts on his animal act, screaming at me ever so loudly and angrily, (great actor, he be).

“Hey, you! What are you doing in my barracks?!?!”

Well, you Fire-Breathing Monster, this is where I have official orders from Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington, D.C. to come to, right into your barracks. I don’t say that, of course. But I try to spit out some lame answers as he keeps screaming, yelling and cursing. He had quickly stalked right up close to me, to stick his face right in mine as he now raves in such a beastly manner. As I make feeble attempts to justify my existence in his squad bay, I make the mistake of addressing him as “Sir”.

“I’m not a Sir! I’m Drill Sergeant Dunn!” He soon screams, “Get out of my barracks! GET OUT!” (As if he were kicking me out of the Marine Corps.) So, like a good Marine following orders, I run out the front door I had recently come in. (Only warrant officers and commissioned officers are to be addressed as “Sir”, not sergeants, even if they are a fire-breathing dragon like Dunn.) (I have yet, at age 78, to perceive what good the Marine Corps thinks is accomplished by such an initiation of such a degrading animal act.)

The proper thing for me to then do, would have been to stand at “parade rest” just outside, beside the door facing away from the barracks, and silently wait in that military stance. Then the next move would have been Sergeant Dunn’s move. But I wasn’t thinking that clearly. So, I walk the short distance back to the company office. Company Gunnery Sergeant is in it alone. He looks annoyed at me coming back there to bother him on this busy day for him. ‘Sergeant Dunn ran me out of the barracks.’

“That is your barracks. That is where you belong. Get back there.” When I go back, Drill Sergeant Dunn curses and berates me. Soon “Platoon Sergeant” Long comes in, and curses, berates, and screams at me. Soon after, when the 1^st Lieutenant Platoon Leader soon comes in, he doeth likewise.

“Officer Candidate Richard, is there any sane, logical reason at all, why anyone would want to become a Marine?”

‘None at all, just vain pride of life, and/or a sadistic desire to kill other humans.’

This officer candidate training company consists of 5 platoons, each platoon with about 30 of us university seniors, to total about 150. Eight other fellow Auburn classmates of mine arrive this day. The powers-to-be split us 9 up as evenly as possible thru out the company (as was their custom). Two of us were each assigned to 4 different platoons, and the remaining guy was assigned to the other platoon.

I’m glad to see that Fred is assigned to the 5^th platoon with me. Thus far on campus at Auburn, Fred has befriended me more than any of the other 7 guys in my class. A few weeks ago, at Ft. Benning, he and I just naturally stuck together a lot. I am a loner by nature, and it is not my nature to try to make friends and to push myself onto anyone to be friends. I just let such naturally occur.

We were required to report in by a certain hour this Monday, likely 2 or 3 PM. No candidate arrived the previous day, and most of them waited till the last minute to come this afternoon to avoid as much of this initial harassment as possible. Several drove their own car or had a family member (or friend) bring them by car. I was locked in with the train’s arrival time, causing me to be an “Early Bird”. The “worm” I got by being an early bird certainly was not a pleasant “worm” to digest at all.

At lunchtime, Sergeant Dunn orders me to go to the nearby chow hall and eat lunch. Good chow. Also, I’m allowed sufficient time (20 minutes), to eat the meal (not like the 2-4 minutes at Ft. Benning). I help myself, and chow down bountifully on the delicious and healthy chow, hungry, having not eaten much all day yesterday or this morning.

All afternoon, the harassment continues full blast as we stand in lines to be issued sheets and pillow cases for our bunk, uniforms, field gear, M-14 rifle, and such. We line up at the simple barbershop where the barber takes only 3 minutes on each of us to peel all our hair down as close as the clippers can cut it, making us into “burr heads”.

We were each required to bring one civilian men’s suit, and our midshipman’s summer service uniform (along with other civilian attire). We have been instructed to arrive at Quantico on this day wearing either our civilian suit or our midshipman uniform. But, my Marine upper classmen at Auburn well warned us Auburn guys not to wear that Navy uniform to this Marine Corps arrival harassment on arrival day, because the Harassers would make that Squid uniform a cause for further harassment. I followed my buddies’ wise advice, and showed up in my civilian second-hand suit. Most all the candidates knew to do so, and did so. About 10% came wearing that Navy midshipman uniform. They got bonus harassment directed at that “squid” uniform.

Those unfortunate guys constantly had it screamed into their ears, “Get to the rear of this rank (a line of us)”!

As Drill Sergeant Dunn marched us in ranks to various places to receive our issue of uniforms and gear, occasionally he would give the command, “About Face!” Upon executing that command, our rank (line) then faced the opposite direction, causing the miserable soul at the rear end in his Navy uniform to now be at the very head of the rank.

“What in the #*&#* are you doing in front, you *&#%* maggot? Get to the rear!”

A few candidates, now in Navy uniform, had been to Jump School in Ft. Benning this summer, just as I had. They proudly wore those Army jump wings on their chests, which brought further bonus harassment. The sergeants had each of them repeatedly standing on nearby tables and chairs, and jumping off these “platforms,” making them jump just as the Army had trained us to do. The rest of us were highly entertained with such circus acts. I was most glad I did not arrive at Quantico proudly sporting my Army “jump wings” on my “squid” Navy uniform. Oh, what miserable fun and games!

We pass the afternoon of this 1^st day at Quantico (Monday) doing administrative “processing in”, which I have briefly described here. After the entire platoon had assembled around mid-afternoon, our 1^st Lieutenant Platoon Leader sternly lectures us on a few things.

At suppertime, Sgt. Dunn marches us to the chow hall to eat. Back in the barracks after supper, he orders us to shower, then orders us to “rack out” (get in bed, in your “bunk”) about 9 PM. (Today, from the start, we were more or less free to visit the “head” (toilet) individually, when the need arose.) Then Drill Sergeant turns out the lights and drives home to his wife, likely stopping at a bar on the way for a few beers. These “Trainers” put in a long day. I admire their diligence.

Each platoon is housed in its own squad bay (barracks), a metal Quonset hut shaped like an inverted “U”, with a bare concrete floor. A row of double bunk beds stands against each of the 2 long walls with a long aisle between the rows. Near the front entrance is our platoon’s large metal garbage can, a type that was common in 1968. Marine upperclassmen at Auburn had warned us that our Drill Sergeant would awaken us the first morning or two, by throwing the garbage can’s metal lid down the squad bay aisle like a Frisbee is thrown, accompanied by his loud, vulgar yelling and screaming.

Tho I was plenty tired from dozing on the moving train the previous night, and from a day of Marine Corps harassment here, I don’t sleep very soundly this 1st night. It wasn’t all that quiet in this room with about 29 other guys, much snoring and such. About 6 AM the next morning, I’m half-asleep trying to get more rest, when I hear someone from outside step up quietly to our garbage can and lift up that heavy metal lid. ‘Oh No! Here it comes,’ I thought.

Sgt. Dunn sailed that lid down the aisle between the 2 rows of bunks like one throws a Frisbee. The instant it hit that concrete floor with a loud screeching sound, he yelled at the top of his voice, “Get out of those racks, you lazy #*$&#!” As we all came scrambling out of bed, some guys in upper racks jumped right on top of guys scrambling out of the lower rack, both sprawling onto the concrete floor. Dunn cursed them for that unplanned circus act. Thus, we learned an important lesson. This night as we rack out, each pair of upper and lower guys decide on opposite sides of bunk beds to bail out of. This 2^nd day (Tuesday), the intense harassment continues. Then on Wednesday, Sgt. Dunn ceases the extreme of it, and continues the remaining 5 and half weeks with only mild harassment.

At chow time, we are given about 20 minutes to eat the meal. That’s plenty of time, especially compared to the 2-4 minutes at Army Jump School. We have wholesome, healthy chow, self-service with each guy taking a metal tray and filling it with his meal in amounts he chooses.

An upbringing in poverty had naturally benefited me by teaching me not to waste food. So, I eat and drink all I take out each mealtime. Our whole company eats in one chow hall. During the 1^st week or longer, there is always 1 or more of the 5 Drill Sergeants sternly watching us in the chow hall as we come, eat, and then exit the chow hall. They observe spoiled brats returning their trays with various amounts of food remaining on the trays, and that food being thrown away, of course. So, it’s about our 3^rd day here (Wednesday or so), when a stern sergeant stands where we return our used eating utensils, and he angrily orders each guy with remaining food to sit down at a nearby table and eat it all. That immediately remedies their wasteful eating habits.

The smokers amongst us are forbidden to smoke for the 1^st four days or so. In my company, they catch one nicotine addict breaking that rule. He was hiding and sneaking a smoke. (He was not in my platoon.) Upon being caught, his platoon leader ordered him to present the cigarettes he had (a partial pack). When we are having class that day, he is put on display outside the entrance to the classroom.

The pitiful addict was commanded to light a cigarette, put it into his mouth, and then not touch it with his hands till he had smoked it down to the filter. He stood at parade rest puffing on the weed between his lips till he smoked it down. Then he had to light the next cigarette off of it, dispose of the butt in a prescribed manner, and continue that routine non-stop till he smoked all the cigarettes in that partial pack. The stern sergeant watching the miserable guy made him puff plenty.

Cruel, Insanity it be, to reduce that Marine’s health, strength, and efficiency, by harming his health with that intense period of breathing in smoke. If instead, they made him do all the pushups he possibly could, every hour on the hour, for all the waking hours up to a week or so, that would tire him much as punishment, while strengthening his body with that exercise. Wisdom that would be, but absent here!

I think it was on Friday of this 1^st week, when the announcement was made that the smokers could smoke at the prescribed times it was announced, “The smoking lamp is lit.”

Daily we have PT (Physical Training), consisting of running and various exercises. We occasionally go on forced marches with our field pack and such gear. But this summer, the U.S. government had (for the 1^st time) put some new restrictions on how much the Marine Corps could push us physically in this intense summer heat and humidity, and the reason for doing so was plenty tragic.

I arrived at Quantico in late July. Earlier this summer before my arrival, 2 college guys like me had died of heat stroke in this officer candidate training. This might have been the 1^st time such deaths had occurred. It wasn’t because the leaders were intensifying the training more so than yesteryears’ training, but rather because young guys were becoming accustomed to a soft, comfortable life of air conditioning when the weather was hot. Thus, the hot, humid Quantico summer heat killed 2 Marine officer trainees with heat stroke. (Not on the same day, and not in the same training company, of course.)

One of the 2 dead guys (the 2^nd one, I think) just happened to be a U.S. congressman’s son, so all the rumors said. And still the plot thickens. He fell out on a forced march, crawled off the trail and wasn’t missed immediately. After his platoon returned to their squad bay, trainee leaders in the platoon realized he was missing but were afraid to report it. But soon his absence came to light, search was made along the trail and his dead body was found 1 or 2 days after he fell out. By then, maggots were on his face.

A handful of U.S. congressmen and senators flew down in helicopters from nearby Washington, D.C., and immediately relieved some officers of their command, (likely his platoon leader and company commander). And they imposed yellow, red, and black flag restrictions on our training, according to the intensity of the temperature and humidity. When the black flag was run up the pole, we were restricted to classroom training (or to sitting idle in the squad bay if outdoor training was scheduled). Our leaders were shaking their heads in vexation. “This is no way to train these officer candidates to fight a war in the steaming jungles of Viet Nam.” How right they were.

Because of those restrictions and a good amount of classroom time regularly interspaced between rigid PT and field maneuvers, this training at Quantico is not near as physically demanding as Jump School had been. As at Fort Benning, here also we have no air conditioning. But the temperature at night drops somewhat lower than those longer daylight late June days much further south down in Georgia, enabling me to sleep and rest much better here.

And these Marines in charge of us carefully rotate classroom time with outdoor physically rigorous training time, to intermittently rest us in the classroom. It’s plenty hot in the classrooms. We battle dozing off as the officer instructors lecture us on how to fight wars. Also, our drill sergeants closely watch us, to gladly assist any nodding guy to return to wide-awake status.

In class, they show us a film (titled “Land Mine Joe”) of a Marine who had been severely wounded by a land mine in Viet Nam, but he survived. The film shows the medical operating room scene of doctors and their assistants working hard on his terribly mangled body to save his life. It shows them probing his damaged, blinded eyeballs with a metal probe, and other such utterly gross, bloody scenes. Our classroom had been darkened to show the film. Soon we hear a dull thud in the dark classroom, as one would-be Marine officer fainted from looking at the graphic scenes of blood and mangled flesh, and he fell right out of his chair onto the floor.

The 1^st time we spend a night out in the field sleeping in our little canvas tents, it had rained on us most all day as we trained in the hilly forests of Quantico. Those woods abounded with poison oak or poison ivy, and I was highly allergic to both. Soon we all become soaking wet as we practice war in the rain. I see the poison all around and know from much former experience with it as a boy on the farm, that it gets on me worse if I am exposed to it on a wet day. By the time we had eaten our cans of supper (C-rats), and I lie down to sleep on the wet ground under that small canvas cover, I could feel the miserable itching of the poison breaking out over much of my body. And the misery increases with each passing minute.

The next morning when we return to the squad bay, I ask permission to go to sickbay. The Navy corpsman gives me calamine lotion to rub onto the vast territories of my skin now covered with the red goose bump-like tortuous itchy poison, and exempts me (in writing) from PT, till it gets better. So, as I stand idle on the side of the field, being badly infected, watching my buddies do their pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups and such, Drill Sergeant Dunn gets in my face to curse and badmouth me for being a Non-Hacker (one who can’t hack it).

Way to go, Sgt. Dunn. You really know how to make a Marine feel proud to be a Marine.

From about the middle of our 1^st week, we are allowed to write and send out letters. Upon doing so, family members and friends to whom we write, learn our mailing address for the 1^st time. Thus, we soon begin receiving mail “from home” upon which daily mail call is begun. It’s like an oasis in the desert. (No electronic communications in these ancient days.)

Sgt. Dunn comes into the squad bay with a few letters in 1 hand, yells out “Mail Call!”, and commences to read off the names of each candidate who has mail. Each of us listens eagerly for our own name to be called, disappointed on the days when it isn’t called.

As we each write of our present estate to our loved ones back home, one guy soon gets a letter from his girlfriend. On the outside of the envelope, she had written “Hi, Sergeant Dunn.” Dunn has a field day (a blast) with that one. He blasts the guy for his girlfriend taking such “liberties” with him (Dunn). He orders the candidate to save that envelope. Later Dunn makes the candidate stand before all our platoon members in the squad bay, fold the envelope into a small wad, put it into his mouth, and eat it, swallowing it all. (I can’t see eating that poison making a better Marine officer out of the guy.)

“Drop, and give me 20 pushups for your girlfriend taking such liberty with me!” Had Dunn issued such a command, I can see the pushups making the guy a stronger Marine. But what benefits come from eating that paper, ink and glue (mild poison)???

We officer candidates arrived at Quantico on Monday of our 1^st week, and we will happily depart this torment shortly after Friday noon of our 6^th week following our graduation exercise that Friday morning. Thus, we spend 5 weekends in Quantico. I think we trained till noon each Saturday with Saturday afternoons and Sundays as free time. The 1^st weekend, we may not have been given any liberty except to go to chapel service on Sunday. I attend chapel each chance I get. It’s an oasis of a friendly atmosphere, compared to the 5 and half days of harassment and vulgar language.

My buddy and fellow platoon member (Fred from Auburn) came to Quantico in his car. Come Saturday afternoon of our 3^rd or 4^th weekend here, he lets me go with him in his car down to Fredericksburg. We drive around in some of the Civil War battlegrounds that have become lovely state or national parks. Lovely Virginia scenery! Restaurant meals are far more pleasant than the Marine chow hall, and the quiet, air-conditioned hotel room that night makes for much better sleep than the barracks. We spend a restful and relaxing 24 hours (plus), and return to our company and our barracks at Quantico late Sunday afternoon plenty refreshed.

(I learn that an all-girls’ college, Mary Washington College, is located in Fredericksburg. I file away that important data in my mind to use when I return to Quantico next year for Marine Officers’ Basic School.)

“No doubt we can read of your romantic adventures at Mary Washington College in a soon-coming chapter.”

‘No doubt!’

A few nights, we train for night fighting in early darkness, returning to the squad bay late at night to sleep in the barracks. Only 3 nights or so, did we spend the entire night in the field (the 1^st time being when I got covered with Poison Oak or Ivy). Normally, we finish our training at 5 PM or shortly after, eat supper in the chow hall, and then have free time till “Lights Out” at 9 PM or so. I think we were restricted to the squad bay area on such evenings. We showered, did laundry in washing machines provided for us, sat on our footlockers (no chairs in our barracks) studying for tests, writing letters, cleaning our rifles, polishing the brass on our uniforms, or cleaning and shining boots and shoes, amidst much verbal garbage (chitchat).

We were of kindred spirits having one thing in common; wanting to become a Marine officer. Much of our talk was of that common goal, the present training we were undergoing, college life, and the Marine Corps and military life in general. It was refreshing in its own way, living together for six weeks with a gang of guys the same age and of kindred spirits, getting to know guys from several universities in the eastern half of our nation. It broadened my farm boy narrow horizon.

In my platoon, “Kurt” ⑤ was a somewhat chubby, talkative clown, clowning around much during our free time. He was a pain in the neck to several of us. A few years later he will die in a plane crash caused by his stupid clowning around as a pilot. He should have taken such a dangerous job more seriously. I certainly did, and am alive now at age 78 to tell you about it.

Each of the 5 weekdays is a full day of training (a few nights also), and as we pass the halfway mark of 3 weeks, we begin to more eagerly look forward to finishing here and heading back toward our college campuses. Along about the 4^th or 5^th week, one morning we train to traverse a “combat area” consisting of crawling uphill thru mud under barbed wire while the “enemy” fires blank rifle rounds at us and pops many smoke grenades near us. They had made the course muddy by pouring water on it.

There were several difficult challenges and obstacles in this course, but the mud and the smoke were the most unpleasant. The smoke was thick. It burned our eyes and irritated our lungs terribly, coming from a man-made chemical instead of God-made firewood. The thin, slimy mud permeated all our clothing including our T-shirts and under shorts. When we returned dead-tired to the squad bay, showered, and changed into clean uniforms, most of us just threw away the T-shirt and under shorts, instead of trying to get them clean again.

Traversing that “combat zone” was the most fatiguing training I encountered here at Quantico this summer, (actually the most fatiguing single event in all my time in the military). We went thru it in the late morning, returned to the squad bay, cleaned up, and ate chow at lunchtime. Classes were scheduled in the afternoon, a welcome relief after the rigorous morning. Before class time, as I sat on my footlocker in the squad bay feeling totally beat from the exertion and somewhat sick from that chemical smoke, the Platoon Sergeant or Platoon Leader called me up front to their office.

“Some government officials are flying down in a helicopter from Washington, D. C. this afternoon to see a demonstration of the running of that ‘combat zone’,” they told me. Apparently, the legislators in white shirts and suits wanted to see if it was cruel and unusual punishment for us boys. Well, why didn’t the lazy politicians get moving early enough in the morning, to get on a helicopter and get down here in time to watch the whole company go thru that torment?

“We’re assigning a few candidates to run it again for their observation. You are one of them. So be prepared. We’ll call you when the time comes.” They carefully picked guys whom they thought able to endure it again this same day. They knew I had as much or more stamina as any other guy in our platoon, so they chose me. I think 1 guy from each of the 5 platoons was to be assigned. I wondered where I would find the energy to do that again this same day, and how sick I would become breathing that chemical smoke again. And I didn’t want to have to throw away another change of underwear, and to laundry another uniform.

Apparently, the Lord bestowed great mercy upon me to intervene on my behalf, because they never called me up for it. That was the last I heard of it, much to my relief. Likely the politicians got too busy to come.

It was toward the end of this 6 weeks of OCS, and likely on a Friday or Saturday evening that our whole company loaded onto cattle cars and rode to the famous, historical Marine Barracks in Washington, D. C., to watch the Marine Corps Drill Team perform their silent drills. It was plenty impressive to watch their robot-like precision.

We were ordered to wear our Navy midshipman’s summer service uniform to this grand performance. That’s the uniform some fellows got terribly harassed about, because they showed up wearing it upon arriving here. Now on this evening, we are fed supper chow a little early and are standing outside in formation in that Navy midshipman uniform, waiting for all the “cattle cars” to drive up so we can board them.

Sergeant Dunn is having plenty of fun harassing us. A few of us are proudly wearing those Army Jump Wings on our chests. “How many jumps did you make?”

“Five, Drill Sergeant.” Dunn strides around asking each Jumper that question, and gets the same answer from each guy. I was the last one he asks. After I reply with the same number, he asks, “Why did everybody make five jumps?” Well, Sergeant, that’s what the Army decided upon, just as the Marines decided on 6 weeks for us to be here, available for you to harass us. Go ask the Army. I was simply following orders and the set training syllabus, just as I am doing now. (I didn’t say that aloud, of course.)

Marines call candy, snack foods, and chewing gum “pogy bait”. I don’t know if I spelled “pogy” correctly, or if it is even a real word. During our 6 weeks here, we were very restricted as to when and where we could partake of pogy bait. We were forbidden to have any of it on our person, when in uniform.

As Sgt. Dunn moseys thru our platoon’s formation at this time, somehow, he discovers one guy with a pack of nabs in a pocket. (Likely the pocket was visibly bulging with that round pack of nabs inside it.) Dunn then makes each of us turn our trousers’ pockets inside out, and he checks our coats’ pockets also for pogy bait. I don’t think he found any more.

You know what a small pack of round cracker “nabs” looks like, 4 stacked nabs wrapped in clear cellophane. Holding that pack upright between thumb and forefinger, Dunn commands the guy to open his mouth wide. Straining, the unfortunate guy is able to get his moth open wide enough for Dunn to place that whole, wrapped pack upright into his mouth. “Now eat it!” Dunn commands him.

The poor guy has almost no room to chew, and the cellophane wrap makes it difficult to start breaking up the crackers with his chomping. Dunn orders him to eat nabs, cellophane, and all. With much effort the poor guy accomplishes that torturous act. He could have choked to death on that large wrapped lump in his mouth, and have become the 3^rd dead officer candidate of this summer, for the White Collars in nearby D. C. to fly down here in choppers to hang Sergeant Dunn upside down by his heels.

I enjoy that trip up to The Marine Barracks in our nation’s capital, enthralled as I watch the grandeur and precision of the Marine Corps Drill Team, vastly different from this redneck farm boy’s military drill movements.

We are given written tests on what we are taught in the classroom. We are scored on our PT tests. We are evaluated as to how well we can handle tough situations given to us in the field. We are required to drill our platoon while a drill sergeant from a different platoon in the company evaluates us. He didn’t evaluate me fairly. As I marched 5^th platoon, I gave them each command written on the card the evaluator had handed me, without any flaw on my part, and in a clear, loud command voice. He gave me a fair, average grade when it should have been higher.

He was not my Drill Sergeant Dunn. They are switched to evaluate guys in another of the 5 platoons than their own. Supposedly, that is to insure fairness. But I perceived that out of jealousy, some or most of the evaluators give lower than deserved ratings, out of spite to the “rival” platoon.

Thus, in such an early stage of my military training, I first receive partiality and unfairness from some of those in command of me. The platoon leader, platoon sergeant and drill sergeant evaluated each man in his own platoon, according to guidelines (supposedly). The candidate with the overall highest evaluation in the whole company was designated Company Honor Graduate at our Graduating Ceremony.

As Dunn trained us, he repeatedly boasted to us how that in the previous class, the Company Honor Graduate came from his platoon, inferring that it was due to Dunn’s excellent training ability. I perceived that from the very start, Dunn’s shrewd, acute mind accurately sized us up as to what one guy in our platoon, had the greatest, all-around natural ability; and Dunn purposely gave him very high ratings and evaluations in every area (that Dunn evaluated), in order for that guy to become Company Honor Graduate. Dunn gave that one guy higher evaluations than the guy deserved, so that Dunn could boast of having the Company Honor Graduate. That looked good on Sergeant Dunn’s record. As for the remainder of us peons, Dunn gave us what we deserved, or lower than we deserved. I think (that at times), I got lower marks than I deserved.

Toward the end of our training here, one Saturday or Sunday I ride with Fred out to The Basic School where 2^nd lieutenants are training. We cannot barge in on their training, or even their weekend free time. But cruising the lieutenants’ parking lot there, we spot Jerry’s car. (Jerry was 1 year ahead of us at Auburn. We know his car from Auburn days.) Fred turns up a small piece of paper in his own car. I scribble a short note on it, telling Jerry which company and platoon we are in at OCS, and put it under the windshield wiper on his car.

Four days or so later, 2^nd Lieutenant Jerry comes to us after our supper chow, talks to Fred and me, and to 1 or 2 other guys from Auburn. Jerry said his classmate from Auburn, John ②, had just started at The Basic School (1 class behind Jerry). A couple or so evenings later, Fred and I meet Jerry and John at a designated place out in Quantico Town, and we 4 sit and talk a while.

This is my last time ever to see my university classmate, Marine buddy, John. He will be killed in Viet Nam in about 10 or 11 months. He planned to be a career Marine officer, 20 years or more of active duty. But, in the past, I observed him drinking (beer) heavily at Auburn. Here this day, I watch him chugalugging beer and boasting of drinking heavily a few weeks ago at Auburn, at a Farewell occasion for him leaving Auburn. Had he survived Viet Nam combat, likely he would have been a chronic alcoholic by the time he reached 30 years of age.

OCS Graduation is on the last Friday morning (the end of the 6^th week). Likely the company’s big beer blast party was the previous afternoon. Trainers and trainees alike drank all the free beer they wanted, as they partied together drunkenly. (Likely your tax dollars bought that beer.) We trainees in each platoon put on a skit that mocked our fire-breathing trainers. And those trainers (company leaders) who had “drug us thru the mud” (literally and figuratively) for 6 weeks, sat and watched our hilarious, downgrading ridicule of them as we portrayed them in each skit. Most of them laughed with us. They let us “pay them back” in that way. I was chosen by my platoon guys to portray our Platoon Sergeant Long. I did my best to exaggerate his peculiar actions, and make it as comical as possible.

At least one candidate in my platoon failed. He was a good guy who just didn’t have the strength to pass the PT (Physical Test). Two other physically weak guys in my platoon just barely passed the physical part, and thus graduated. But I heard that when they returned to their respective universities, they asked their Navy ROTC unit to allow them to go into the Navy instead of into the Marines. I think their requests were granted.

One of my classmates from Auburn failed (washed out), being too weak physically. He was not in my 5^th platoon. At that time, the Executive Commander of Navy ROTC at Auburn was a stern Marine Lieutenant Colonel. (Normally a Navy Commander holds this office.) Anyway, this colonel at Auburn was a stern Marine. He had the option of making this failed classmate of mine serve 2 or 3 years as an enlisted seaman in the Navy after he graduated from Auburn U. That XO was not required to make this failed guy do this, but he made him do it anyway. And during this following academic year at AU, the XO posted those orders on the Navy ROTC bulletin board at Auburn U. for all of us to see, further humiliating the guy.

(Our Quantico OCS graduation at the end of these 6 weeks of training at Quantico was in early September 1968. Nights were already getting chilly in the squad bay. The one sheet and one thin blanket issued to each of us, were not sufficient cover for me as I slept. I shivered.)

The several failures in this company were made to stand at the side of the parade field, and watch our graduation. I asked my Auburn classmate Mike ④, if I may ride back to Alabama with him. OK. So, four of us Auburn guys return in his car, leaving Quantico early that Friday afternoon and driving all way to Birmingham, Alabama by 3 or 4 AM Saturday morning. We got a motel room, slept for 5 or 6 hours, and drove on to Tuscaloosa. They let me out there, and went on their way south. I called my older brother, Sidney, from a payphone. He came for me in his car, and took me to Dad’s house.

Upon leaving Vernon for Quantico, I had loaned my sister my 1962 Falcon to use during the time I would be away, because she didn’t have a car at that time. When I return to Vernon, Janiece said she had driven the car much (sort of wore it out), and now had a 1963 Falcon to give me in place of it. I have forgotten further details of that transaction, but that was the gist of it. It was a good vehicle. So now, I have a different car (in just over 4 years, the 5^th motor vehicle of my life).

It’s almost 3 weeks before Fall Quarter begins at Auburn U. I go right to work roofing for Mr. Mars, and work as many hours as I possible can before school starts again, desirous to earn all the wages I possibly can. I got no military pay the three weeks I was in Jump School at Fort Benning. I got low pay the six weeks I trained at Quantico, plus “travel pay” round-trip from my “home of record” (Daddy’s address). I need to be earning wages.

I saw that John Wayne’s “Green Beret” movie was showing in Columbus, Mississippi, not far from Dad’s house near Vernon. I knew that much of it had been filmed at Ft. Benning, Georgia (last year I think, 1967). To get needed Asians for actors (Viet Cong soldiers), they advertised for Asian actors at close-by Auburn University, knowing that a few Asian students were there. A Chinese guy (student) who worked in the dining hall with me, got a part in making that film. Anyway, I drove to Columbus, Mississippi from Daddy’s house one night and watched that movie to see who and what I might recognize in it.

The first part of the make-believe movie was John Wayne’s Green Beret soldiers going thru Airborne Training at Fort Benning, just as I had recently done for real. In those scenes, I saw some of the Army sergeants who had trained me. Also, there was a scene of the colorful colonel Commanding Officer of the Jump School, shooting skeet with main star John Wayne (who portrayed a major (?) in the movie).

Then in the movie’s make-believe story, John Wayne’s Army Company (?) of Green Berets, flies to Viet Nam. I watch the movie screen in comical amusement as a military C-130 transport plane lands on the runway we used at Ft. Benning to fly out to the nearby drop zone and parachute out of the plane. As that C-130 taxies in and stops near some hangers (where we would wait in formation to board a plane to take off and jump out), on the low “plateau rise” in the background, I see the barracks area where I slept, and the chow hall where I ate.

When the plane comes to a full stop, that scene is cut, immediately followed by a different scene of a stopped C-130, engines off, and its rear hatch lowering (opening). No actors were aboard that plane that was shown flying in, only its real flight crew. The actors board a parked plane for this scene.

John Wayne struts off the plane in military pomp with a few other important “Army” men, looks around importantly-like, and announces with vigor, “Well, here we are. Da Nang!” Good acting, John! That was plenty amusing to me, as was watching him and his actors fight the Viet Nam war amongst scrub pine growth in southern Georgia. Didn’t look like an Asian jungle at all.

This summer of 1968 was packed full of travel to new places far and near to exert myself to my physical limit, doing strenuous, energetic, and exciting military training, all of it being new and rich experiences for me. It all greatly broadened my horizon. I thank my Lord for all of it, and for bringing me safely thru dangerous military training (like falling from high in the sky to the ground).

In spite of some willful unfairness that I saw among them at Quantico, I gained high, genuine respect and admiration (in general) for sergeants who train the paratroopers at Ft. Benning, and sergeants who train us at OCS in Quantico. They (and sergeants who train privates in boot camp and basic training, etc.) put in long days of up to 16 hours some days, with many of those hours being extremely physically demanding. It is plenty fatiguing, especially in summer heat. I saw that many of them were highly dedicated to their mission, enduring hardness as a good soldier. Similarly, I desire to endure hardness as a good soldier of my Captain, the Lord Jesus Christ.

At summer’s end this year, I’m most thankful for and happy over my important accomplishments and achievements. And I look forward with happy anticipation to now returning to my favorite spot on this planet.

The End of Chapter 17

On to Chapter 18

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