Chapter 17

STRENGTH TO BATTLE…IN HIS YOUTH

(Summer 1968, U.S. Army Airborne training at Ft. Benning, Georgia and then Marine Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia)

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 the Spring Quarter ended, I drove to Mr. Mars’ house in Birmingham to do all the roofing work I could before soon reporting to Ft. Benning (in 3 weeks or so) to parachute out of airplanes. During those 3 weeks, I also went 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 walked into the house Mrs. Mars said, “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 drove to Auburn to get my written orders for Army Jump School from the Navy ROTC office on campus. I met outside that office building on a Sunday morning with 4 other classmates who were also going, and rode with classmate Fred over to Ft. Benning that Sunday afternoon, leaving my little Falcon parked at Mrs. Taylor’s house. The other 3 guys came to Ft. Benning in 1 or 2 cars. We processed in, were each assigned a bunk in 2 different barracks, and early the following morning (Monday) started Airborne training.

There was much calisthenics consisting of running, pushups, sit-ups, and such. The entire course was only 3 weeks long. The 1^st week was mainly calisthenics and jumping off low platforms about 4 feet high onto soft ground to practice our parachute landing falls, rolling when I touched the ground to distribute the shock of the impact to various body points.

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

The 2^nd week I trained on the high towers, 100 feet (or more) high. On the ground, each time I strapped on a parachute that was already spread out in a metal ring. A long cable was attached to the center of that ring, and a winch pulled it up to a metal arm protruding out horizontally at the top of that high tower. The sergeant on the ground ordered me (thru the speaker at the top of the tower) to unfasten my safety line attached to the ring. The winch operator then sped the ring the short remaining distance to the very top, which popped the parachute free from the ring, and I floated to the ground under the parachute just as I would do jumping from an airplane.

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

The summer humid heat was most fatiguing. Exposed flesh got sunburned and the harness straps digging into our bodies rubbed those areas raw, causing rash, and such. Daily, we marched 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) 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 stayed in old wooden barracks like Army enlisted men did. But we did not stay in the same barracks buildings with them because we were higher ranking. We stayed with midshipmen from other universities and from the Naval Academy. I think there were also some Air Force cadets in our barracks. We had just a very little time to enjoy chatting with each other in the evenings. Our uniforms and boots got filthy each day. In the evenings we shined boots, laundered socks and underwear, and waited 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 2 days ago.

In addition to Jump School being my most strenuous military training, here I had to endure longer waits in longer lines than in any other phase of training.

It was difficult to sleep well and rest well because it was hot inside the barracks all night. No air conditioning. During sleeping hours, one guy was 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 caught fire. “Fire Watch” rotated to the next guy each hour. My time came up 2 or 3 nights a week. During the 5 weekdays of these 3 weeks, there was practically no time to enjoy life.

When we were dismissed for the weekend on Friday evening of the 1^st week, I rode back to Auburn with Fred. My Falcon was parked at Mrs. Taylor’s. I stayed in my air-conditioned room in her house till Sunday evening and ate for free at the girls’ dining hall those 2 days. I helped a little in the cafeteria (volunteer). But they were so good to let me eat (essentially as a guest) when I was in town periodically. That was a blessing. I attended church on Sunday and rested much those 2 days, being greatly fatigued.

I drove my own car back to Ft. Benning on Sunday evening for the 2^nd week of training and came 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 was such a welcome reprieve to then relax and rest 2 days at Mrs. Taylor’s house and at the cafeteria, leisurely eating delicious meals with those sweet girls.

The 3^rd and last week of Airborne training was making 5 jumps out of airplanes. It was a quite relaxed week with little calisthenics and marching. We spent 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 were 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 felt immense relief upon feeling the “jerk” of the opening parachute and then looking up to see the canopy formed perfectly round above me. After exiting that noisy jet, quietly floating down to the ground felt so serene and pleasant.

I made my following 3 jumps from a smaller prop motor transport plane built mainly for airborne training use. I think it was the C-119. I felt better jumping from the smaller plane, less scared than jumping from the large jet transport.

And after my 5^th and final jump was completed, my heart was filled with thanksgiving to God for keeping me safe the whole time. They started a new class every Monday and graduated the oldest class every Friday. During our 1^st week of training, a rumor circulated among us trainees saying 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 the parachute causing him to land almost upside down. He was paralyzed from the waist or neck down. That was the entire rumor. May have been true. May not have been. 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 Army colonel who “mixed” with us as much as his time permitted, I guess. He was great! On my 4^th or 5^th jump, he boarded our plane and jumped first and alone. Then the plane had to make another pass for the 18 or so of us trainees to jump.

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 row of us as we sat seated and buckled up. He jested and joked. He hooked up his static line and then 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!”

He kept up such monkeyshines till the plane got over the jump zone and 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 it gave me. (I John 2:16)

After graduating from Jump School on Friday, I drove to Auburn and spent an elated restful weekend on campus. In the dining hall, I told everybody of my daring feats at jump school.

On Sunday afternoon or evening, I drove on to Mr. Mars’ house in Birmingham and worked 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 drove to Daddy’s house near Vernon and left my car there for my sister to use while I was away. I did 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, was going to Birmingham the day I needed to catch the train from there (a Sunday). So I rode with him from Vernon and he took me to the train station in Birmingham. Previously I had picked up my military written orders at the ROTC office at Auburn. So with them and one suitcase, I boarded and left by train about mid-afternoon.

This was my 1^st time to ride a train. (I was 22 years old.) I recalled my 1^st quarter at Auburn what 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 experienced the reality of that on this 1^st train ride.

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 New York City. I bought the cheapest train ticket. No sleeper car at night. Thru out the night, I dozed sitting up or lay down briefly on the bench seat. I didn’t buy much to eat for supper or for breakfast the next morning because food served on trains is somewhat expensive. The train arrived at Quantico station about 8-9 AM the next morning (Monday). I had never before been this far away from my boyhood home.

I made sure the train conductor knew that I wanted off at Quantico. I was the only passenger to alight at Quantico. When the train stopped, the conductor placed the wooden steps on the ground in front of the train door where I stood and shouted “Quantico!” He took my suitcase, placed it on the concrete, put away the wooden steps, boarded, and the train soon left.

A Marine corporal (driver) was waiting there with a “cattle car” to see if any Marines would 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 guy to be hauled this time. As I rode by myself in that large van, it seemed like “overkill” to use such a large vehicle. He took me to the “company” office where I processed in by giving my orders to the company gunnery sergeant. He told me I would be in 5th Platoon and directed me to its barracks, the last Quonset hut in this company’s row of Quonset huts. I walked the short distance to it with my suitcase in hand and entered the barracks. No one was inside.

Upon alighting from the train 30 minutes or so before, I tensed up, waiting for the storm to hit. Here, our “trainers” would yell and scream at us and call us every filthy name they knew (and these Marine trainers knew a lot of filthy names). My upperclassmen fellow Marines at Auburn had talked much about that, after they returned to campus from this Officers’ Candidate School. I knew to expect it and naturally dreaded it. When the “cattle car” driver came up to me at the 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 hit in full fury!

My platoon “drill sergeant”, Sergeant Dunn, came to the front door of this Quonset hut, looked inside for any new arrival and upon seeing innocent little ol’ me, he screamed angrily at me about as loud as he could. “Hey, you! What are you doing in my barracks?”

Well, that is where I had official orders from Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington, D.C. to come to, right into his barracks. I didn’t say that, of course. But I tried to spit out some lame answers as he kept screaming, yelling and cursing. He had quickly stalked right up to me and stuck his face right in mine as he now raved like that. As I made feeble attempts to justify my existence there, I addressed him as “Sir”.

“I’m not a Sir! I’m Drill Sergeant Dunn!” He soon screamed, “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 ran 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.)

The proper thing for me to then do would have been to stand at “parade rest” beside the door facing away from the barracks, and 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 walked the short distance to the company office. Company Gunnery Sergeant was in it alone. He looked annoyed at me being 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 went back, Sergeant Dunn cursed and berated me. Soon “Platoon Sergeant” Long came and cursed, berated, and screamed at me. When the 1^st Lieutenant Platoon Leader soon came, he did likewise.

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

‘None at all, just vain pride of life.’

This officer candidate training company consisted of 5 platoons, each with about 30 of us university seniors. That comes to about 150 of us. Eight other classmates of mine from Auburn arrived 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 assigned to a different platoon each and the remaining guy was assigned to another platoon.

I was glad to see that Fred was assigned to the 5^th platoon with me. Thus far on campus at Auburn, Fred had befriended me more than any of the other 7 men 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 about 2 or 3 PM. No candidate came the day before 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 was not a pleasant “worm” at all.

At lunchtime, Sergeant Dunn ordered me to go to the nearby chow hall and eat lunch. Good food. Also, I was allowed plenty of time to eat the meal (not like the 2-4 minutes at Ft. Benning). I helped myself and chowed down bountifully, being very hungry because I hadn’t eaten much all day yesterday or this morning.

All afternoon, the harassment continued full blast as we stood in lines to be issued sheets and pillow cases for our bunk, uniforms, field gear, M-14 rifle and such. We lined up at the simple barbershop where the barber took only 3 minutes on each of us to peel all our hair down as close as the clippers would 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. We were permitted to arrive at Quantico this day wearing either of these. But my Marine upper classmen at Auburn well warned us not to wear that Navy uniform because the harassers would make it a cause for further harassment. I followed their wise advice and showed up in my civilian suit. Most all the candidates knew to do so, and did so. About 10% came in 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 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 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 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 trained us to do. The rest of us were highly entertained with such circus acts. I was most glad I did not show up at Quantico proudly sporting my Army “jump wings” on my “squid” uniform. Oh, what fun and games!

We passed 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 lectured us on a few things. At suppertime, Sgt. Dunn marched us to the chow hall to eat. Back in the barracks, he ordered us to shower, then ordered us to “rack out” (get in bed, in your “bunk”) about 9 PM and then he turned out the lights and drove home to his wife.

Each platoon was housed in its own squad bay (barracks) that was a metal Quonset hut shaped like an inverted “U”. The hut had a bare concrete floor. A row of double bunk beds stood against each of the 2 long walls with a long aisle between the rows. Near the front entrance was 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 by throwing the garbage can’s metal lid down the squad bay aisle like a Frisbee is thrown.

Tho I was plenty tired from dozing on the moving train the previous night and from a day of Marine Corps harassment here, I didn’t sleep very soundly that night. It wasn’t all that quiet in this room with about 29 other guys. About 6 AM the next morning, I was half-asleep trying to get more rest when I heard 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 threw 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 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. 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 were given 15 minutes or a little longer to eat. It was plenty of time, especially compared to the 2-4 minutes at Army Jump School. We had wholesome, healthy chow. It was self-service, each guy taking a metal tray and filling it with his meal in amounts he chose.

An upbringing in poverty had naturally taught me not to waste food. So I ate and drank all I took out each mealtime. The whole company ate in one chow hall. During the 1^st week or longer, there was always 1 or more of the 5 Drill Sergeants sternly watching us in the chow hall. They observed spoiled brats returning their trays with various amounts of food remaining on them and that food being thrown away, of course. So it was about our 3^rd day here (Wednesday or so) when a stern sergeant stood where we returned our dirty eating utensils and ordered each guy with remaining food to sit down at a nearby table and eat it all. That immediately remedied their wasteful eating habits.

The smokers among us were forbidden to smoke for the 1^st week or so. In my company they caught one guy 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 were having class that day, he was put on display outside the entrance to the classroom.

The pitiful guy was commanded to light a cigarette, put it in his mouth and then not touch it with his hands till he had smoked it down to the filter. 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. After 5 to 7 days, the candidates who smoked were allowed to smoke when it was announced, “The smoking lamp is lit.”

Daily we had PT (Physical Training) consisting of running and various exercises. We occasionally went on forced marches with our field pack and such gear. But this summer, the U.S. government had put some new restrictions on how much the Marine Corps could push us physically, and the reason for doing so was somewhat 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 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.)

One of the 2 dead guys just happened to be a U.S. congressman’s son. 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, this training at Quantico was not as physically demanding as Jump School had been. As at Fort Benning, here also we had no air conditioning. But the temperature at night dropped somewhat lower than those late June nights much further south down in Georgia, enabling me to sleep and rest much better. And these Marines in charge of us carefully rotated classroom time with outdoor physically rigorous training time to intermittently rest us in the classroom. It was plenty hot in the classrooms. We battled dozing off as the officer instructor lectured us on how to fight wars. Also, our drill sergeants closely watched us and gladly assisted any nodding guy to return to wide-awake status.

In class they showed us a film (titled “Land Mine Joe”) of a Marine who had been severely wounded by a land mine in Viet Nam but survived. The film showed the medical operating room scene of doctors and their assistants working hard on his terribly mangled body to save his life. It showed them probing his damaged, blinded eyeballs with a metal probe and such gross scenes. Our classroom had been darkened to show the film. Soon we heard 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 fell right out of his chair onto the floor.

The 1^st time we spent 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 were all soaking wet as we practiced war in the rain. I saw the poison all around and knew 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 lay 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 increased with each passing minute.

The next morning when we returned to the squad bay, I asked permission to go to sickbay. The Navy corpsman gave me calamine lotion to rub on the vast territories of my skin now covered with the red goose bump-like tortuous poison and exempted me from PT till it got better. So, as I stood on the side of the field, watching my buddies do their pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups and such, Drill Sergeant Dunn would get 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 proud to be a Marine.’

From about the middle of our 1^st week, we were allowed to write and send out letters. Upon doing so, the family members and friends to whom we wrote learned our mailing address for the 1^st time. Thus we soon began receiving mail “from home” upon which daily mail call was begun. It was like an oasis in the desert. Sgt. Dunn would come into the squad bay with a few letters in 1 hand, yell out “Mail Call!” and commence to read off the names of each candidate who had mail. Each of us listened eagerly for our own name to be called and was disappointed the days when it wasn’t called.

As we each wrote of our present estate to our loved ones back home, one guy soon received a letter from his girlfriend. On the outside of the envelope, she had written “Hi, Sergeant Dunn.” Dunn had a field day (a blast) with that one. He blasted the guy for his girlfriend taking such liberties with him (Dunn). He ordered the candidate to save that envelope. Later Dunn made 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 that 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 came from eating that paper, ink and glue (poison)???

We officer candidates arrived at Quantico on Monday of our 1^st week and left shortly after Friday noon of our 6^th week after our graduation exercise that Friday morning. Thus we spent 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 attended chapel each chance I had. It was 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 let me go with him in his car down to Fredericksburg. We drove around in some of the Civil War battlegrounds that had become state or national parks. Lovely Virginia scenery! Restaurant meals were far more pleasant than the Marine chow hall and the quiet, air conditioned hotel room that night made for much better sleep than the barracks. We spent a restful and relaxing 24 hours (plus) and returned to our company and our barracks at Quantico late Sunday afternoon.

(I learned that an all girls’ college, Mary Washington College, was located in Fredericksburg. I filed away that important data in my mind to use when I would return to Quantico next year for Marine Officers’ Basic School. You can read of my romantic adventures at Mary Washington College in a soon-coming chapter.)

A few nights, we trained 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 finished our training at 5 PM or shortly after, ate supper in the chow hall and then had 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 there, sat on our footlockers (no chairs here) 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 would 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 at age 70 to tell you about it.

Each day was a full day of training and as we passed the halfway mark of 3 weeks we began to more eagerly look forward to finishing here and heading back toward our college campuses. Along about the 4^th or 5^th week we had to traverse a “combat area” consisting of crawling uphill thru mud under barbed wire while the “enemy” fired blank rifle rounds at us and popped many smoke grenades near us. They had made the course muddy by pouring water on it.

There were several different 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 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. Before class, 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 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 down here on 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 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 be after breathing that chemical smoke again. And I didn’t want to have to throw away another change of underwear and laundry another uniform.

Apparently the Lord bestowed great mercy on me because they never called me up for it. That was the last I heard of it, much to my relief.

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 historical Marine Barracks in Washington, D. C. to watch the Marine Corps Drill Team perform their silent drills. It was quite impressive to watch.

We were ordered to wear our Navy midshipman’s summer service uniform to this grand performance. That’s the uniform the fellows got terribly harassed about, because they showed up wearing it when they arrived here the first day. Now on this evening, we were fed supper chow a little early and were standing in formation waiting for all the cattle cars to drive up so we could board them.

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

“Five, Drill Sergeant.” Dunn strode around asking each jumper that question and getting the same answer from each guy. I was the last one he asked. After I replied with the same number, he asked, “Why did everybody make 5 jumps?” Well, Sergeant, that’s what the Army decided upon. Go ask them. I was simply following orders and the training syllabus.

Marines called 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 it on our person when in uniform.

As Sgt. Dunn walked thru our platoon’s formation at this time, somehow he discovered one guy with a pack of nabs in a pocket. Dunn then made each of us turn our trousers’ pockets inside out and checked 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 commanded the guy to open his mouth wide. Straining, he was able to get his moth open wide enough for Dunn to place that wrapped pack upright into his mouth. “Now eat it!” Dunn commanded. The poor guy had almost no room to chew and the cellophane wrap made it difficult to start breaking up the crackers with his chomping. Dunn ordered him to eat nabs, cellophane and all. With much effort the poor guy accomplished that torturous act. He could have choked to death on that size of a lump in his mouth and have become the 3^rd dead officer candidate of the summer for the White Collars in nearby D. C. to fly down in choppers to hang Sergeant Dunn upside down by his heels.

I enjoyed that trip up to The Marine Barracks in our nation’s capital and watching the grandeur and precision of the Marine Corps Drill Team, vastly different from my movements as a redneck farm boy.

We were given written tests on what we were taught in the classroom. We were scored on our PT tests. We were evaluated as to how well we could handle tough situations given to us in the field. We were required to drill our platoon while a drill sergeant from a different platoon in the company evaluated 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 and in a clear loud command voice. He gave me a fair, average grade when it should have been higher.

I began to perceive the unfairness in the leaders. 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.

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 accurately sized us up as to who had the most natural ability in our platoon and gave him very high grades and evaluations in every area 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, Dunn gave us what we deserved or lower than we deserved.

Toward the end of our training here, one Saturday or Sunday I rode with Fred out to The Basic School where 2^nd lieutenants were training. We could not barge in on their training, but cruising the lieutenants’ parking lot there, we spotted Jerry’s car. (Jerry was 1 year ahead of us at Auburn. We knew his car from Auburn days.) Fred turned up a small piece of paper in his own car. I scribbled a short note on it telling Jerry which company and platoon we were in at OCS and put it under the windshield wiper on his car.

Four days or so later Jerry came to us after our supper chow, talked to Fred and me and 1 or 2 other guys from Auburn. Jerry said his classmate from Auburn, John ②, had just started at The Basic School (1 class or so behind Jerry). A couple or so evenings later, Fred and I met Jerry and John at some place out in Quantico town and we 4 sat and talked a while. This was my last time to ever see my Marine buddy John. He would be killed in Viet Nam about 10-11 months later.

OCS Graduation was 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. (Likely your tax dollars bought that beer.) We trainees in each platoon put on a skit that mocked our trainers. And those leaders who had “drug us thru the mud” for 6 weeks sat and watched our hilarious 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 universities, they asked their Navy ROTC unit to allow them to go into the Navy instead of the Marines. I think their requests were granted.

One of my classmates from Auburn failed, 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. The XO was not required to make this failed guy do this, but he made him do it anyway. And 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 OCS graduation at the end of these 6 weeks of training at Quantico was in very early September 1968. Nights were already very cool in the squad bay. The one sheet and one thin blanket covering me as I slept were not sufficient cover.

The several failures in the 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 could ride back to Alabama with him. OK. So four of us Auburn guys returned 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. I called my older brother, Sidney. He came for me 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 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. So now, I have a different car (in just over 4 years, the 5^th motor vehicle of my life).

It was almost 3 weeks before Fall Quarter would begin at Auburn U. I went right to work roofing for Mr. Mars and worked as many hours as I possible could before school started again, desirous to earn all the wages I possibly could. 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. 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 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 actors at close-by Auburn University, knowing a few Asian students were there. A Chinese guy who worked in the dining hall with me got a part in 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, 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 John Wayne (who portrayed a major or colonel in the movie).

Then in the movie’s make-believe story, John Wayne’s Army Company of Green Berets flew to Viet Nam. I watched the movie screen in comical amusement as a military C-130 transport plane landed 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 taxied in and stopped near some hangers (where we would wait in formation to board a plane to take off and jump out), I could see the barracks I slept in and the chow hall I ate in on a low hill in the background.

When the plane came to a full stop, one of its doors opened, John Wayne strutted off the plane in military pomp with a few other important “Army” men, looked around and soon announced 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 to exert myself to my physical limit doing strenuous, energetic and exciting military training, all 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).

I gained 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) put in long days of up to 14 hours or so, with many of those hours being extremely physically demanding. It is plenty fatiguing. I saw many of them as being most 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.

On to Chapter 18

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