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Chapter 1
It Begins
The trip started on February 5, 1968, at the Military Entrance and Processing Station (MEPS) in Portland, Oregon. It was a long day of filling out paperwork, stripping naked with sixty other guys and being examined by what appeared to be a doctor. After having blood drawn, I was informed I had syphilis.
Fortunately, being raised a Navy brat, with a father that had come up through the ranks, I had been around the military long enough to recognize that some of those serving were not the sharpest knives in the drawer, and this guy
struck me as among the dullest. And since I was older than most present for this medical news—and not officially in the military yet— questioning the informant was not a problem.
“Hey, medic, you want to check that again?”
Annoyed, he double-checked his clipboard, the sign of authority around here, it appeared.
“All right, what’s your number again?”
“Number fifty-one.”
“Oh, this isn’t you. Number fifteen, come in here.”
Had the medic passed his reading test? Late that afternoon, the MEPS staff deemed me worthy to join the ranks. Raising our right hands, we all took the Oath of Allegiance. Those of us that were flight school wannabes were escorted to a waiting cab that was to take us to the airport. There were antiwar protesters blocking the front door, so we went out the back, through an abandoned storefront. Instead of bands playing as we went off to combat as our grandfathers had experienced, we were sneaking out the back door.
The flight to Fort Worth, Texas, was an all-night affair as it was the last flight out of Portland that night. The flight was half-full. A flash-in-the-pan rock band was on board, corralling the attention of the stewardess for the whole flight. Two future soldiers were of no interest to her, and we didn’t even look like soldiers yet.
Changing planes in Fort Worth, we boarded a prop airplane from Trans-Texas Airways along with thirteen other guys heading to Fort Polk, Louisiana. I had some flight training and held a private pilot’s license, so I noticed little things, like the fuel cap dangling from a chain on the wing. Small detail. I notified the stewardess, who informed someone in the cockpit. The pilot wasn’t happy, stopping the plane on the taxiway, getting out and placing the cap in position. I should have paid more attention to Fort Worth, as I would be returning here after basic training.
Arriving in Fort Polk, Louisiana, the plane taxied to a shed that appeared to be left over from World War II. Everyone deplaned and went inside to be greeted by military police, MPs. The MPs directed us to empty our shaving kits, as that was all we were allowed to bring besides the clothes on our backs. That was good because that was all I owned anyway. We were asked if we were carrying any contraband, such as legal or illegal drugs, knives, guns, or straight razors. We were then directed to turn our pockets inside out. Some contraband was found on a couple of individuals, and their Army experience started very badly. Once cleared, we were loaded on a bus and taken to the reception station, where we were greeted by a noncommissioned officer, a staff sergeant.
The staff sergeant was polite, almost fatherly. No screaming, no yelling. He took us on a tour of the reception station. The reception station was all wooden buildings that appeared to have been left over from World War II. In fact, Fort Polk was left over from World War II and had only been reopened in 1966 during the buildup for the Vietnam Conflict. Between World War II and 1966, the post had been in “caretaker” status, being used only for National Guard and Army Reserve training on weekends and in summer. No active Army forces had been stationed there, so most of the post was in disrepair.
The barracks were two-story wooden buildings with open sleeping bays for twenty men on each level. They had been upgraded with a gas furnace instead of a coal furnace. Each level had a bathroom with four showerheads, ten toilets, and ten sinks. The toilets had no dividers between the seats, so guys could have conversations while seated. How convenient!
The staff sergeant directed us to the mess hall as none of us had eaten since we’d started for Fort Polk. After breakfast, he returned us to one of the barracks buildings, assigned each of us a bunk, for which we drew bedding, and told us to wait, and wait, and wait. Throughout the day, new people arrived and went through a similar procedure.
The next five days were filled with in-processing procedures. Haircuts were the very first thing. For the cost of one dollar, everyone received their first GI haircut. It took the barber about twenty seconds to deliver this haircut, which was like shearing sheep. All individual identity was lost after this as everyone was a skinhead when they got out of the chair. Then off to draw uniforms. First, we were instructed to strip naked.
“If the Army wants you to have something, the Army will issue it to you,” bellowed the staff sergeant. As we walked down a long row of clothing, butt naked, civilians began to dress us. The first item they handed me was a duffel bag.
“What’s your waist size?” a civilian clerk asked.
“Ah, thirty-two, sir,” I stuttered.
“Here’s size thirty. You’re going to drop a few pounds in the next weeks,” he replied while handing me four pair of boxer shorts. “Put one pair on and three in the duffel bag,” he directed. “Next! What’s your waist size?” he asked the next guy. By the time you reached the end of the line, you were fully clothed and had a duffel bag of clothing.
The afternoon was another exercise in rapidly moving two hundred bodies through another process: immunizations. We formed a single line. On each side stood two medics, with one holding what appeared to be an air gun. “Shirts off!” came the command. “Forward march.” The first medic on each side wiped my shoulder with an alcohol pad, then the second placed the air gun on my shoulder and fired. No needles required, and it hurt like hell. Well, two shots wasn’t so bad. Oh no, it was every afternoon for four days! The whole process took about thirty minutes, and then it was off to a classroom for more testing. I guess they didn’t trust the tests we’d taken before we joined, so we took the same tests all over again.
Finally, the day came when we were assembled on the street with our duffle bags and prepared to move to the appropriate training company. The renowned Army two-and-a-half-ton trucks arrived and were positioned for us to load. As our names were called, we were told to load the trucks. Since my last name began with a C, I was one of the first to climb up on the back of the truck and moved to the front. As more men climbed in, the front filled up. At last, the final sardine was packed in, and the back flap of the truck’s canvas cover was closed so we couldn’t see where we were being taken. It was so dark in there I couldn’t see the guy standing next to me either. The ride was short. The driver deliberately screeched to a halt at every stop sign and hit every pothole, just so we could enjoy the experience of our first ride in the back of the truck. Eventually, the truck stopped and the back flap opened.
“Get out of my truck, you maggots! Move, move, move! Here, let me help you, maggot!” yelled a voice surrounded by a blinding outside light.
“Ahhh!” came a reply, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground, then another, and another in rapid succession. A groping arm reached into the truck, grabbing for me.
“What are you waiting for, Princess? I said get out of my truck!” In seconds, I was out of the truck and running for dear life with a drill sergeant right on my ass.
“Now get in formation on the cables!” bellowed another drill sergeant. How many drill sergeants did they have in this company? They were everywhere; almost one drill sergeant per trainee, it seemed. We were all trainees now. Running down the length of the street were four steel cables staked to the ground. We were directed to line up, toes only touching the cables and duffel bags in front of us. Some of the trainees managed to screw up these simple orders.
“You people don’t want to listen and follow instructions? Fine! Every last one of you mothers drop and give me fifty!” Being from a military family, I knew this meant we all had to get into a front leaning position and push out fifty pushups. However, some trainees didn’t understand and moved too slow for the drill sergeant.
“Recover!
What are you doing, maggots? Who told you to wipe your hands off? Why are you not at the position of attention? Now, together, on my command, you will take the front leaning rest position, and together we will do our fifty pushups. And don’t let me see one of you out of step. Now, drop!”
Down we went. “On my command. One, two, three—recover! Why can’t you keep up? Yeah, you, Little Sister!” There was no telling who t
he offender was because the drill sergeant was looking at everyone. Everyone was looking straight ahead as they should be when in the position of attention. Well, not everyone.
Suddenly a drill sergeant appeared in front of a trainee who had been looking at the drill sergeant leading this exercise. “Why are you looking at Sergeant Spruce? Do you want to make out with Drill Sergeant Spruce? Is he that pretty you want to stare at him? You don’t need to see him to hear him! Do you listen with your eyes? Are you some kind of freak?”
The exercise and tirade went on for a good hour. I doubt anyone completed fifty pushups, but we were all smoked and our arms were shaking by the end of the ordeal. We were told to pick up the contents of our duffel bags, which had been dumped on the ground for contraband inspection. A drill sergeant ordered us to our assigned barracks. As he called out names, he assigned each trainee a bunk, a wall locker and a footlocker. We were told to stand next to our footlockers at parade rest. After everyone was assigned a place, three other drill sergeants strolled into the barracks. One was a staff sergeant, the other two being just sergeants—Staff Sergeant Van B. Ford, assisted by Sergeant Bradshaw from Texas and Sergeant Thomas from Ohio.
Staff Sergeant Van B. Ford was a short black man with a calm voice. He simply told his soldiers what he expected and never raised his voice. His sentences usually followed a “Normally this, however that” pattern. “Normally these barracks are spotless. However, with you people here, it’s a pig sty.”
“When I call yo’ name, sound off,” he said as he looked at a clipboard. “I need a platoon guide and four squad leaders. Are any of you trainees prior service?” he asked. One trainee raised his hand. “What’s yo’ name, trainee?”
“Crawford, Drill Sergeant,” he responded.
“Crawford, Crawford.” He consulted his clipboard. “Oh yeah, you was Navy. What you joining the Army for anyway?”
“To go to flight school, Drill Sergeant,” Crawford said.
“Flight school! You got to get through basic training before you can fly. You the platoon guide now. Anyone had ROTC training?” Staff Sergeant Ford looked around the room, and two other trainees raised their hands. Addressing the closest, he declared,
“You going to be first squad leader. What’s yo’ name?”
“Hanna, Drill Sergeant.”
“Where you from, Hanna?”
“Puerto Rico, Drill Sergeant.”
“Puerto Rico my ass, Hanna. With that blond hair, blue eyes and lily-white skin, you can’t be from Puerto Rico. Sergeant Lopez is from Puerto Rico, but not you. What’s yo’ daddy do?”
“Dad is an engineer for a company there, and we moved there when I was born. Been there ever since.”
Looking at the other trainee, Drill Sergeant Ford tagged him as the second squad leader.
“You, what’s yo’ name?” he asked, pointing at a tall, thin black soldier.
