Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Memorial Day - 2010
It’s been a year since my last blog post, and much has happened since Memorial Day, 2009. One of the reasons I haven’t written since then is I didn’t have the experience of “the world getting better.” Yes, some things in the world are moving forward in a more workable fashion. However, I’ve been deeply troubled by a lot of the things that haven’t.
One of the things I did since last Memorial Day was visit the Vietnam Memorial. It was the first since I returned to the U.S. 40 years ago. I highly recommend visiting to everyone.
My first reaction was, I thanked God my name wasn’t on the wall, when there were plenty of times that it could have been. My second reaction was mixed. I was glad to see that some of the names of guys I served with were NOT on the wall. I was saddened to see that the names of the guys I was closest to, and who saved my ass more times than I could count, were also NOT on the wall, because even though they were “killed” while in Vietnam, they didn’t “die” (via suicide) until they were back home.
As I often say to friends, clients and pretty much anyone else who will listen, “there’s no such thing as a one-sided coin.” So, while I’m still basking in the miracle of the Obama election and what he’s been able to accomplish to date, I can also see the great lengths to which those who didn’t support him will go to discredit and thwart nearly ALL of what he’s trying to do for our nation.
The people who are constantly labeling him a “tax and spend/big government” villain, either have very short memories, or no memory at all. Last time I checked, Obama didn’t get us into 2 wars, nor any of the policy and law changes that resulted in the worst economic conditions since the Great Depression.
And, while it looks like it’s just “business as usual” in the political arena, I have a slightly different view of it all (and for disclaimer’s sake, let me state that it’s NOT the TRUTH… It’s just based on my 65 years and 10 months of being black in America).
WHY would I have the view I’m about to expound on, one might ask? Well, I’m glad you asked! It’s partly due to history, as in our nation’s history, and partly due to my personal experiences, which are extensive.
You see, we have people clamoring about “immigrants,” and what should be done about them. Excuse me, we’re ALL either immigrants or descendants of immigrants. And Christopher Columbus didn’t discover America. It was here all along, and there were people living here, and they were NOT “Indians.” They only got that name because Columbus was lost, and thought he’d found a new route to India! I mention this ONLY to point to the sense of entitlement that some Europeans and/or their descendants seem to have whenever they see something they want. They just TAKE it, in the name of whatever, be it claiming in the name of the Queen, or the King, or crafting a Constitution where black people aren’t considered human, and therefore, NOT entitled to their inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness incorporated in the Declaration of Independence.
While that Constitutional flaw has been corrected – on paper – for many years, in actual fact, many of the remnants of slavery not only have persisted over centuries, but have in some cases, gotten worse. Oh, we’re no longer sold on the auction block as chattel. Instead, it’s “minimum wage jobs,” unaffordable housing, and a prison industrial complex that makes billions of dollars annually for keeping people of color locked up and out of the job market, and off the voting rolls. Have YOU, the reader ever wondered why African Americans make up only 13% of the U.S. population, but represent anywhere from 50-85% of prison populations? Do you honestly think it’s because they’re the ones committing most of the crime? If that’s really what you think, then it may be hopeless trying to re-educate you to anything to the contrary.
Let’s take a brief historical look at the “winning of the West…” What facilitated and greatly contributed to the “Manifest Destiny” movement? The introduction of guns and alcohol to the indigenous population. (For those that weren’t murdered in their sleep, run off their lands, or killed trying to protect what had been theirs for generations, and the “gift” of those blankets loaded with Small Pox.) The survivors were eventually tricked into moving (some via walking) to some of the most uninhabitable spots in the country. It was called a “treaty.” Only there was no “treat” for them. They were referred to as “savages.” Their homes are now called “Reservations.” And they have the highest alcohol addiction per capita of any place on planet earth.
Now, let’s fast forward to most urban areas today. Alcohol and guns alone were insufficient to de-stabilize the black and Hispanic communities, so they added drugs. But thanks to minimum wage jobs (or NO jobs at all), the people who stand to profit, both financially and politically recognized that the drugs (mainly powdered cocaine) weren’t affordable, so they put on their thinking caps, and came up with Crack cocaine. Easier and cheaper to produce, lower in sale price and way more addictive. Then, to complete the formula, they changed the drug laws, so that possession of powdered cocaine got probation or a minimum sentence, but possession of Crack cocaine had (and still has) lengthy mandatory sentences, in some cases, with no possibility of parole. So, now, we have the “perfect storm.” The private and public institutions that make up our prison systems have job security, black and Hispanic people (mostly men between the ages of 18 and 24 when first convicted), become people who can’t compete on the job market, even for the minimum wage jobs, and once they’re convicted felons, they are denied the right to EVER vote again, so they can’t even have a say in changing the system!
When they DO finally get released, there are very few companies that will give them a job, so what’s available for them to earn money to live and support a family on? Right – crime, and most resort to selling the very drugs that are choking our communities (and not just black and Hispanic communities), and providing more “customers” for the prison system and all their “support structures.” And the guns made available (thank you National Rifle Association) are no longer the “Saturday Night Specials.” Now the drug dealers and the ‘gangs’ (they’re often both the same people) have weapons that are as sophisticated or better than law enforcement officers. Weapons that are NOT needed for deer and duck hunting, so the 2nd Amendment of the Constitution has NOTHING to do with the hoarding and sales of automatic weapons!
Oh, and I almost forgot to add the sub-standard education systems that middle and low income people have to rely on for their children’s preparation for “making it” as adults. In Chicago, the average high school dropout rate is 50%. In some of the predominantly black high schools, it’s 85% or higher. And statistically, we know that once a student drops out of school, their chances of ending up incarcerated just went up to a minimum of 50%.
In the state of Illinois, it STILL makes more sense (and cents) to our politicians to spend upwards of $45,000/year to keep someone incarcerated than to invest $15,000/year to educate them and keep them OUT of the criminal justice system. Nationally, if we actually win the wars on drugs and crime, in excess of 1 Million people would lose their jobs.
This may sound like “ranting,” and to some degree, it may be. After all, I haven’t posted here in a year. But I promise, I AM getting to a point.
What has any of this to do with Memorial Day and veterans? Part of why I mentioned the above material is to paint a broad picture for how the past has contributed to where we are now and the road we’re on.
To quote (and maybe paraphrase) one of MY heroes and mentors, Werner Erhard, “We’ve gotten very sophisticated in the art of war and killing each other, but we’ve made almost NO progress in being related… since cave dwelling times.”
We’re still “taking what we want” from those that have it, whether it’s oil or other natural resources, and we’re still doing it at the expense of people who have little or no voice in the matter.
The people who are declaring and instigating wars are not sending THEIR children to fight and die, or come back maimed, and then given the run-around when they return home and try to get the treatment they need. Neither are the captains of industry (the Wall Street Execs, or corporate CEOs) sending THEIR children. Unless of course they happen to be graduates of prestigious universities, or one of the military academies, which one can only get into if they have political clout (meaning the parents contributed large sums of money to some Senator or Representative, or one of the parents themselves was a graduate of that military academy), so the overwhelming majority of middle and low-income families are automatically excluded. (YES, there are rare exceptions, just enough so no one can accuse the culprits of doing what they’re actually doing.) And that means that if the children of middle and low income families want to earn money for college – quickly, (and remember, minimum wage jobs and Pell grants won’t do it, and most are academically ineligible for scholarship, and athletic scholarships only apply to the super athletes) all they have to do is “volunteer” to go into one of the branches of the military, and risk getting killed, maimed, or have their brains scrambled for life, and if they survive that, THEN they can pursue their college education. Do you ever wonder why all the commercials for the military focus on “earn money for college,” or some other part of the American dream? Here’s a clue! It’s NOT for the wealthy! Or the people who don’t have to worry about their children being murdered on the way to school, or even in what is supposed to be the safety of their own home.
And, when jobs are either scarce or non-existent, the military doesn’t sound like such a bad deal – until a weapon is placed in their hands and they’re told that “those people” are the enemy, and by killing them, you’ll be defending your country. The paradox here is that in some instances, that’s at least feasible. But let’s take another historical look. What exactly was the threat to the United States in Vietnam? The answer is, there WAS NONE! It was just a bullshit conversation to make some people rich-ER, and in the process, get some black men off the street. I was one of those, except, I wasn’t “on the street.” I was just completing my sophomore year in college (a City College, because there was no money available otherwise, minimum wage in 1965 was $1.75/hr. and I was working 3 part-time jobs while going to school full time) and this was before the military started “bribing” people to join), and, I was drafted. I was president of the Student Government and editor of the school newspaper, and totally opposed to any form of violence as a solution tactic. My years of exposure to Dr. King and the non-violent movement had groomed me well, but NOT for war. Once I was IN the Army, (at a whopping salary of $96/month) I got really clear why we were called the “Infantry.” Because we were all babies! Not in the literal sense – we ranged in age from 18-21, and I was one of the “old guys” at 21) but in the game of war, which I have to say is one of the absolute WORST expenditures of a human being’s time and energy. In war, even when you win, you lose. And when you lose, you lose big time, because the wounds of the war live on for decades!
NO, I haven’t gotten off-track. To the contrary, everything I’ve written so far is an integral piece of the fabric that is the condition we all have to live with.
Back to the current “wars” for a moment: Here are a few of the statistics of those wars…
- 300 = the number of active duty suicides since January 1, 2010
- ? = the alarming/yet unreported, number of returnees with one or more limbs missing – it’s in the thousands
- ? = Also alarming, the number of armed services women being raped, both in Iraq and Afghanistan, AND on U.S. Military bases – it too, is in thousands
- ? = the number that either have already suffered massive and irreparable brain damage, and those for whom brain damage awaits – it’s in the tens of thousands, if not the hundreds of thousands
- Nearly 1/3 of all homeless people are veterans
Add to this that we’re spending somewhere around $2 Billion Dollars a month to sustain the wars. I’m not suggesting that we stop supporting our men and women who are serving. THEY are not the ones who got us into the mess, and they should not be punished for their choice to serve. To the contrary, they are to be commended and honored for saying “yes” to being the ones to serve (monetary incentives not-withstanding). I’m pointing here to the mentality (or lack thereof) of the decision-makers who either instigate or support wars and their accompanying costs in money and human capital, which allows them to then justify reducing funding of education, laying off teachers and cutting programs like sports, art and music. Are you starting to see a theme here? If not, don’t worry, I’m not finished yet!
Here’s the “bottom line” that ties this all together. The “common thread,” so to speak. At the source of everything I’ve mentioned so far is a percentage of privileged white people, who by virtue of entitlement, feel they have the God-given right to dictate how things should go for the masses. And that includes the masses, wherever they are – where there is something the entitled group wants to claim in the name of whatever. Then to show the cleverness of this group, they have a certain percentage of the un-entitled group of white people convinced that if it weren’t for “those (black/Hispanic) people,” they could go from “UN-entitled” to “entitled.” Of course, this is not true, but the propaganda machine never sleeps, and because the message is coming from people that look “sorta-like them,” and because we have such a long history of racial bigotry in this country, it “just makes sense” to the “UN-entitled.”
Then, low and behold, the entitled group screwed up things SO badly (and I mean, you really have to get just HOW bad things had to get, given our history), that a black man got elected to the highest office in the land. If you’re NOT African American, and haven’t experienced what life has been like for us, you have NO idea, and I mean NO F _ _ _ King idea, only because you most likely haven’t ever been subjected to that level of hatred – directly! It’s true, some of my Jewish friends can relate. Certainly those who participated in the Civil Rights Movement do, and to some degree, the various political campaigns we were active in. But trust me, it’s different! I’ve never once been able to “blend in,” or been confused for a white person. When I walk into ANY room where the majority of people are white, EVERYBODY is clear who the black person is. And, by the way, if I’m one of only a hand full of blacks, say 5 or 10 in a room of 100 or more whites, then that’s “acceptable” for most white people. But let those numbers be in reverse, and those white people must obviously be “nigger-lovers.” Or stupid! Why else would they be mingling with “those people.” (The view of the Klan and other entitled thinkers)
Envision this if you will… The entitled group and their entitlement-wannabes were (and still ARE) so convinced they were on the right track, that they even refer to themselves as the “Right,” were SOOOOOOOOOO off track that someone they considered “less-than” themselves (remember our Constitutional history), won the Presidency of the United States.
For certain, it took the support of millions of white people who did NOT consider themselves part of the entitlement group, or, they used to but could no longer buy the lie, and in some cases jumped ship from the “UNentitled,” and switched sides in honor of what was possible – without the usual racial rancor. In case you missed it, there was actually a group called “Red-necks for Obama” at the Democratic National Convention.
Not only did Barack Obama have the audacity to win, he promised to rectify some of the screw-ups perpetrated by the entitleds, like bringing the troops home, and coming up with a health care plan that would add 30 Million uninsured Americans to those “entitled” to affordable health coverage. (This REALLY pissed off the entitled group, and what was their justification for voting NO on every idea proposed by Obama?) It was going to raise the deficit, and besides, it was going to have a “death clause,” and kick old people off Medicare, and it was just too much BIG GOVERNMENT interfering in our lives, etc. etc. etc. Hmmm, let’s see now, All the houses of Congress, their families and their staffs are “entitled to” the best health care in the country, and it’s paid for with tax payer’s dollars, but those 30 million that have NO coverage, except the Emergency Room, don’t deserve to have even a watered down version of the privileges enjoyed by the entitled group. (No mention of why the country is in more debt than ever before in our history, and that it’s the entitled group that’s the source of it. When it comes to war – and sending somebody else’s children, husbands/wives, etc., the sky is the limit when it comes to spending, but health care, or education… well, that’s just un-American.)
Lastly (I know, you were wondering if I was ever going to get to the end, right?), I only want to emphasize Memorial Day is not just another 3-day weekend, a day for barbacues and retail sales. Many people have paid a dear price so that we can enjoy our lifestyle – to whatever degree we can call it a “style.” Every year, 1 Million children in Africa die from diarrhea! Another hundred thousand or so from malaria, and let’s not leave out HIV/AIDS, the “mysterious” disease that allegedly came from monkeys. They are not experiencing “life-STYLE.” It’s all they can do to handle life.
What has any of this got to do with YOU? Whether you supported Obama, or those who opposed him, or participated by NOT participating in the electoral process, or know someone who falls into the latter 2 categories, WE ALL have a hand in the current conditions, whether we agree with/like them or not.
And just because an African American got elected President does NOT mean racism is dead in America. I offer as a small sample of evidence, an e-mail post that was on the AOL Home Page a couple of days ago. Thanks for reading and tolerating my “rant.” And, do something nice for a veteran. More often than not, a simple “thank you” would go a long way.
Pissed
Nice info if your elected idiot wasn't killing jobs every single day?? Try being 57 years old and trying to find a job!!! Nobody will hire you because there's too many younger folks out of work!!!! Two more months and unemployment runs out and I go on food stamps and welfare to try to keep my home!!! Thanks Owe Bamma!!!! Go back to your home country of Kenya and run around naked you piece of sh-t!!!!!!!
This was a response to AOL listing companies that were hiring. Apparently, being unhappy wasn’t sufficient for this gentleman. Of course, he had the courage to identify himself – as “Pissed!”
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
A Time for Reflecting
Memorial Day Memories
First of all, I trust all my fellow veterans, those currently serving and their families had a Happy Memorial Day. I spent the day reflecting and recalling my time in the military.
Forty years ago this year (April 8th to be exact), I returned from Vietnam for the last time. Following are some random reflections/recollections of that time from long, long ago.
For all my Landmark Education Friends, I actually had a life BEFORE LANDMARK, and here are just a few snippets of that life.
From the time I entered Basic Training in Fort Polk, LA in 1966 to the day I returned to the United States, there were people around whom I spent time – some merely characters in the play of life, some were dear friends and comrades. And some of them put their life on the line for me more times than I can count.
THE JOURNEY BEGINS
The trip to Fort Polk began shortly after midnight after moving from room to room since 5 am, taking a physical, including the “drop em, bend and cough” routine and finally, being sworn in to ‘defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.’ We departed from the Air Force Side of O’Hare Airport, in a 4-engine propeller plane. The minute it took off, a thunderstorm began, and we bounced and dipped the entire way, finally landing on some Air Force Base in Mississippi. From there, we boarded a series of busses, where we proceeded to go through one single-lamp post town after another, until eventually arriving at the front gates of the fort. I tried to keep track of the roads we took, in case I wanted to go AWOL (Absent Without Leave) later. I didn’t discover until almost the end of Basic Training that I wouldn’t have been able to find my out of that place with a map, compass and guide dog. The place was huge, and had 2 of my least favorite creatures – alligators and snakes.
We stepped off the busses into the humid night air, and were greeted by a Drill Sergeant wearing a Smoky Bear hat and screaming at the top of his lungs, “OK you chicken-shit pussies, fall in single file, drop your bags and look straight ahead. NO TALKING! From now on, your asses are grass and I’m the lawnmower!” “And your mama’s not going to be able to save your sorry asses!”
We were herded into a mess hall (dining area), where they scooped large spoons-full of unidentifiable slop on to metal trays and told we had 10 minutes to eat, clean our trays and silverware and get back in formation.
All of my suspicions that this was about to be a seriously unpleasant experience were instantly confirmed.
We’d been up for going on 24 hours and were finally ushered to the Supply Area, where our civilian clothes taken from us and we were issued our Army Fatigues, underwear, boots, dog tags, etc. There were two sizes for everything – too big and too small. And, since I was 6’3’ and 147 pounds, all my stuff was in the “too big” category, except for the boxer shorts, which were way too small (and I still have the scars to prove it).
We were at what’s called the “Reception Station Area,” a series of barracks and mess halls designed to accommodate the approximately 400,000 soldiers we were told were stationed there – all of whom had to be fed 3 times a day.
When I found out how many of us there were, I wondered how in the world they could feed so many in such a short period of time (the 10 minutes we were allotted to eat and clean up). I soon found out, when one of the Sergeants told me I was being volunteered for KP (Kitchen Police). That means doing all the food prep and clean-up for each of the meals, and a shift was 24 hours – from 3am to 3am the following day. As soon as we finished one meal and the corresponding clean-up, we had to start prepping for the next meal. And there were NO breaks, not even for the bathroom.
Imagine breaking enough eggs to feed 400,000. Or, making hamburger patties for that number. My hands were numb from doing both tasks and I was about ready to drop. I was told I’d be on “light duty” until being assigned to my training company. That meant I got to sleep almost 8 hours every day for the next 3 days, and during the awake time, I just tried on the various clothing items and tried to adjust them, read and wrote letters home to my ex-girlfriend. (More about her later.) I also tried to wrap my brain around my circumstances and pondered just how I was going to handle it all.
Next came the “military haircut.” That simply running the clippers back and forth on the head until we were almost bald. Since I wore my hair fairly short anyway, that was a far less painful process for me than for many of fellow inductees, some of whom looked like they hadn’t had a haircut in years.
I thought to myself, “this might not turn out to be so bad after all.” That was WAY too premature! At 3:00 am the next morning, a large and very loud Drill Sergeant entered our barracks screaming, “Come on you assholes, off your asses and on your feet! You’ve got 5 minutes to get dressed, pack your shit and fall in outside! Move it, Move it, Move it!!!”
I scrambled to follow the instructions, grabbed my duffle bag and lined up with the rest of my bunk mates. In that formation, I learned that not having the buttons on my shirt and my belt buckle perfectly aligned was an infraction that was not tolerated, and we had to get them straightened before we could go any further
Outside, there were several cattle trucks lined up and we were instructed to climb on and sit on the benches along each side. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the last time I’d be transported ANYWHERE by anything other than my own feet.
After about a 40 minute ride, deeper into the forest, the trucks stopped, we were ordered to get off the truck and fall in. (The Army has this love of lines.)
Three hundred or so tired, scared kids got off the trucks and lined up. A short, VERY Southern Drill Sergeant yelled for all the troops from Chicago to take 3 steps forward. There were about 70 of us. We stepped forward. We were then ordered to drop our pants and bend over – and do it QUICKLY! It seemed like a strange request, but then, EVERYTHING seemed strange to me by now.
We complied and the Drill Sergeant proceeded to look up our rear-ends (for weapons and drugs), and by the time he’d inspected each and every one of us, we were ordered to pull our pants up, and do an about-face.
Then, he told the rest of the men in the company to take a good look at these “asshole Yankees.” “They lie, steal, cheat, and they’re probably queer, so don’t turn your back on them.”
We were then ordered to fall back in, pick up our duffle bags so we could be assigned to our barracks. We were assigned by our geographic origin, so, nearly everyone in my barracks was from Chicago. There was one exception – a skinny, loud-mouth kid from Mississippi, who when finding out he was going to be bunking with the Chicago group exclaimed, “I ain’t sleepin with a bunch of God Damned Yankees!” Basic was extra hard for him, as he was given a “blanket party” almost every night – until I felt sorry for him and intervened. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise later on, only I had no idea at the time. (I didn’t make many friends in Basic Training but “Mr. Mississippi turned out to be one of them) This was a totally alien experience for me. And, a shock to my previous way of life. For example, I used to think I needed 10-12 hrs. of sleep/night. When I mentioned this to my Drill Sergeant, I was instantly informed that I’d be lucky if I got that much sleep in a week. I thought he was joking. I soon found out he was deadly serious.
We dropped off our duffle bags, were assigned to our bunks, then off to P.T. (Physical Training) I thought it stood for “Personal Torture.” In the 80 degree, 100% humidity climate, we started with push-ups (I didn’t know at the time, but I would eventually set the fort record for most number of push-ups done in a single Basic Training Period (due to my ‘smart mouth’), and NOT because we were doing an “Extended Basic.” (16 weeks vs. the usual 8 weeks) “Drop and give me 20” got to be an all-too-familiar instruction for me.
Then, jumping jacks, then squat thrusts, then the run, dodge and jump, then the horizontal ladder (lovingly referred to as the monkey bars, because we swung from rung to rung by hand). Then, we ran 5 miles (in combat boots that weighed 5 lbs. apiece). Just when I thought I was going to die, we were told we were going to break for chow. Even though we’d been up for 9 hours, it was only noon! Holy Crap, Batman! I’m not going to make it!
Got my first taste of “field chow.” Another conglomeration of unidentifiable glop – to be scarfed down in 10 minutes (or less). Oh, and now, we “can smoke em if we’ve gottem.” I was smoking about a pack a week – of Kool King Size – not really an addiction yet, so I didn’t have any with me. That soon changed. By the time I was discharged from the service, I was up to 4 packs a day.
Along with that “gourmet delight of a lunch,” we were also given salt pills – allegedly to replace the salt we were sweating out.
With lunch over, it was on to the bayonet field, where we beat each other senseless with pugil sticks – large poles with huge padding on either end. Then to the hand-to-hand combat pit, the rifle range, the hand grenade field, then the gas mask training. We spent approximately an hour and a half at each location, and by the way, each location was 3 or 4 miles apart – and we RAN from place to place. In fact, we RAN EVERYWHERE! The only time we could walk was inside the barracks, during close-order drill (where every arm and leg had to move in the same direction – there were some who actually didn’t know their right from their left, so the Drill Sergeant had to tell them, think of the clutch and brake pedals on a vehicle; that worked for all but one, except the kid from Alabama, whose left arm and leg both moved forward together, and the same for his right, so even when his legs were in perfect step with the rest of us, his arms never were) and the rumored “forced march.”
By now, it’s 6:00 pm and time to run back to the company area for evening chow. Yea! I didn’t know what THIS gourmet creation was either, but I was so hungry that I ate it anyway. And that was pretty much how every meal went. After chow, it was run 5 miles, more P.T., then back to the company area for mail call. I’d hoped to get a letter from my ex (her name is Sandra) as I’d been writing to her daily since we broke up 3 months ago, but no such luck.
After that, we were dismissed. I thought, “Thank God, I can get some rest.” Turns out, dismissed didn’t mean that. It meant we were now free to scrub and wax/buff the floors of our barracks, wash all the windows, clean the latrines, (bathrooms), and do laundry, then once that was done, we could get our personal belongings in order for inspection the next day. That entailed neatly organizing our underwear, socks, etc. in our foot lockers, making sure there was uniform spacing between the hangers in our lockers, polishing our boots and the brass on our buckles. Under ordinary circumstances, we could have done all this in a few hours. The drawback… we didn’t get started until 8:30pm and lights had to be turned off at 10:00pm. So, we took blankets off our beds, covered the windows after lights off so we could turn them back on to finish what turned out to be our nightly duties. Even with everybody working their tails off, it took until midnight to finish. Then, at 3am, a 180 millimeter cannon would go off, the reveille trumpet would blast over the P.A. system, followed by the entrance of our Drill Sergeant shouting, “OK you sorry sacks of shit, unass those racks and be in formation in 5 minutes. That meant bunks made, be fully dressed and in line! If ONE person from the barracks was late to formation, or ONE bed wasn’t neatly made, the entire barracks was punished. Usually, the form of punishment was being the barracks that had to serve chow to the rest of the company. This was an interesting strategy. You see, the cooks only prepared enough chow for 3 of the 4 platoons in the company, so the last platoon/servers had to either skimp on the servings to the other 3, or go hungry. Since going hungry wasn’t an option, the last platoon ALWAYS skimped!
This was only the start of the SECOND day of the 16 weeks training. And they only got worse from there.
Who were the characters in this drama? Our company commander, Captain Helmuth, our Drill Sergeants, Sgt. Johnson (the built like a fireplug – 5’2” 280 lb instructor for PT. He never failed to embarrass us by doing HIS push-ups one-handed. Then, there was Sgt. Giguere, part Cajun, part crocodile, who was our hand-to-hand combat instructor, Sgt. Melendez, a former Marine who fought his way through 40 miles of enemy territory in World War II with nothing more than a bayonet, who got bored with the Marines and joined the Army. He was our Bayonet instructor. He still had a very thick Spanish accent, and I can still hear him screaming, “The spirit of the bayonet is TO KILL!” By the time he was finished with us, I was convinced! Sgt. Smith was our Senior Drill Sergeant, and no matter how much we did or how well, he always pushed us to do more. When running our 5 miles, Sgt. Smith ran backwards the entire time, and never once broke into a sweat.
We hated our Drill Sergeants almost the entire time during Basic Training, until it finally sunk in WHY they were so tough on us. THEY knew where we were headed, and they wanted to give us every ounce of their experience before sending us off to the war.
I was 21 years old when I was drafted out of school, so even though I was only 3 years older than most of the rest of the men in my platoon, I was the designated “father figure,” and frequently was the one they came to in times of stress, which was most of the time.
Since I’d been wearing uniforms of one kind or another since I was 8 years old (Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Explorers, Civil Air Patrol, R.O.T.C. [Reserved Officer’s Training Corp]), the rigor of Military Discipline wasn’t as hard on me as my comrades. It surprised me, for example, how many of them knew nothing about how to shine shoes. I guess having my own shoe shine business from age 9 to age 14 paid off. I also made quite a bit of extra money shining boots for my shine-challenged barracks mates.
No two days were alike, and all any of us wanted to do was survive the day, try to recover during our 3 hour nightly “nap,” so we could start all over again the next day.
I won’t attempt to cover all 112 days, but here are some of the high/low-lights, not necessarily in chronological order:
FORCED MARCH DAY
There was the 50 mile forced march with full gear (120 lbs), in off-and-on pouring rain and the lovely red clay mud of Louisiana. We weren’t allowed to sit down until the march was over. We took 1 five minute break about every 10 miles or so. And it went like this… we’d march through the rain until we were soaking wet, then, our Drill Sergeant would stop us and instruct us to put on our ponchos (the surplus rubberized canvas ones from World War II). These things were only good for increasing the temperature inside them by 25 degrees and collecting all the water that fell on it and depositing it onto our pants legs and into our boots. Then, we’d march some more miles, after it stopped raining, sweat like pigs until the instruction to remove ponchos came. And, soon after we removed them, it would start raining again, and we’d march some more miles with them off, getting further soaked, but at least we weren’t cooking like we were when they were on. This on-again, off-again routine went on the entire day.
I only THOUGHT I knew what tired was like prior to the march. By the time it was over, I couldn’t stop walking on my own. I had to grab a tree, and circle it a few times until I fell to the ground. This was the one and ONLY other time we got to see the inside of a truck for the ride back to our company area.
GAS MASK DAY
All our previous gas mask trainings involved having the instructor scream “GAS,” then timing us to see how long it took to get our masks out and securely on. On THIS day, they used actual gas (tear gas). Instead of simply yelling “Gas,” we were ordered into an air-tight room FULL of tear gas, and it was up to us to get them on as quickly as possible. It was quite an incentive. What made this event especially memorable is that there was one man in my platoon that I knew prior to our induction into the Army. We attended the same college, and we both played in the school orchestra. He played the clarinet and I played bassoon and oboe. He was the ONLY person to freak out over the gas chamber. He said it was because he was Jewish. Whatever the reason, it once again caused the entire platoon to be last in chow again. He paid for it with a “blanket party.” (That’s where a blanket is thrown over the perpetrator’s head while he’s asleep, and he’s punched repeatedly by everyone else in the barracks.) I didn’t come to his rescue because I didn’t like him in school, and it went downhill from there.
SNAKE DAY
On one of my numerous “smart-mouth” episodes resulted in being punished by having to “cut the grass around the chapel.” No sweat, I thought, until I found out I’d have to do it using hand-shears. And, by the way, there was a huge amount of grass around the chapel. While on my knees clipping away, I felt what I thought was an insect bite on my right hand. When I looked down, I saw a small snake, about 2 inches long. Since there wasn’t any blood, and I couldn’t even see the bite mark, I paid it little attention and continued my clipping duties. About 15 minutes later, I could no longer grip the shears, then my hand went numb completely. When I looked down, my hand was now swollen to the size of my head. I dropped the shears and ran to the company office to request a ride to the infirmary. First, I was reprimanded for not saluting. I raised my hand to show the problem was with my saluting hand. My request was denied. I was told “it wasn’t serious, to go soak it in cold water, and besides ‘sick-call’ (the military expression for needing medical treatment of any kind) was for candy-asses.”
The swelling DID eventually go down, 2 days later, but push-ups were incredibly painful prior to that, so, I had to ratchet down my “smart-mouthing.”
THE 3 M’s
It became quickly what the priorities were for G.I.s – Mail, Meals and Money – in that order. It was tough to go through “Mail Call,” and get nothing. They were part of the “Simple Pleasures” of military life, and a life-saver once in Vietnam.
SHOT DAY
It was now time to get vaccinated against all the various diseases, viruses and bug bites that we might encounter – a series of 24 altogether. What this entailed was walking shirtless through a gauntlet of 24 medical personnel, 12 on either side, with what looked like air guns and stopping at each one to receive a shot in each arm. I was glad it wasn’t with needles, which was the only kind of shot I’d ever had prior to that.
They weren’t as painful as needles… at first. But by the end of the process, I felt like I was going to pass out. We got shots for malaria, yellow fever, typhoid fever, dengue fever, and a bunch of other ailments I’d never heard of. We were so wiped out from the shots that we were given the rest of the day off from training. My arms were swollen for the next 3 days after that, sort of the way Popeye’s were.
OBSTACLE COURSE DAY
This was to be the culmination of all the “war games” we’d engaged in and took place about 3 weeks before we were supposed to graduate. I’d seen some of these activities in war movies, but had NO appreciation for what it took to actually perform them. I learned first-hand, and it wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. They were damned hard! We had spent the whole day practicing the run-dodge and jump and the low-crawl through a barb-wire covered pit of sand, gravel and glass. We went through it so many times that the knees and elbows of our fatigues were torn to shreds and our knees and elbows were bloody.
As soon as nightfall arrived, we were told we were now “going to do it for real!” That meant there would be live machine gun fire going over heads, and whatever we did, to NOT stand up to try to short-cut the course. Some of my “brilliant” comrades thought they wouldn’t DARE use live ammunition, especially since we’d always used blanks before. They were sadly mistaken! Even though we could see the red tracer bullets in the pitch-black night, a few tried to ‘beat the system,’ and they were cut to shreds by the 50 caliber rounds. A sad and sobering time. That’s when I knew it was no longer a “game.” We were in it for real, and the consequences for not following orders could be deadly.
PROCUREMENT DAY
One morning, during morning formation, we were told that there were three people in our company who were eligible to apply for Special Forces. At that time I didn’t know the difference between Special Forces – a.k.a., Green Berets and Special Services – the military bands and orchestras. Since I was a musician, I was hoping to get called for the band – THEY weren’t going to war.
The names were called out and they were instructed to fall out and report to the company office. Two people left formation and started for the office. I was waiting to see who the third was. Then, the Drill Sergeant elevated his voice even louder (a fete I didn’t think possible) and screamed out MY name. At first, I didn’t move, because I was certain I wasn’t the Green Beret type, but then after him calling my name again, I figured they MUST have been talking about Special Services, and they wanted me to be in the band. I was elated… momentarily, at least. So I headed over to the company office, where there was jeep from this other place where we were supposed to go to hear about this “Special” whatever it was.
Me, John and another guy whose name escapes me got in the jeep and went for the ride. We were in a completely different and unfamiliar part of the fort, and ushered into a large, three-story brick building, into a classroom, where a John Wayne type, about 6’8” tall, built like a rock, wearing his dress green uniform, patent leather jump boots, Airborne Wings, rows of campaign ribbons, and the impressive Green Beret with his shiny Silver Captain bars on his unit patch. I was awestruck from the minute I entered the room.
He started by welcoming us, and letting us know that we were among a very select few who were eligible to apply for the most elite division of the Army. He said lots of stuff that sounded really GREAT! We’d be in training for at least a year, would most likely be stationed TDY (Temporary Duty) to a civilian location, like Japan, or Germany, live in hotels, work in an office, blah, blah, blah. It sounded really terrific, until he said we’d have to resign from the 2 year Draft Army and re-enlist for at least a 3 year term.
I was a member of the American Friends Service Committee – a Quaker pacifist group prior to being drafted, and didn’t really want to do the 2 years, so 3 was out of the question.
At the end of the presentation, I thanked him, and the three of us returned to the waiting jeep to go back to our company. On the way back, John and the other guy and I talked about whether or not we were going to apply. They said they were, and I made it clear I wasn’t interested but wished them well.
FIRST 3-DAY PASS
After weeks (which actually felt like eternities) of being away from civilization, the entire company was given a 3-day pass. All, that is, accept the platoon from Chicago. We pleaded with the First Sergeant, and were told if we somehow filled the 6 foot ditch that stretched the length of our barracks – AND, topped it off with grass, we too could go to town. He had no idea how motivated and ingenious we Chicago boys could be.
Our barracks was perched on concrete blocks, because the ground underneath was sand and clay. There was about a foot and a half of space between the floor of the barracks and the ground. Just enough space for us to crawl under, dig up sand, put it into our steel pots (the term for our helmets), and assembly-line-pass it out to those outside filling the ditch. It took the better part of the day and into the night, but we got it filled. The rest of the company was long gone into town. We went to the First Sergeant to get the OK to go into town, but when he inspected the ditch, he reminded us that it was still missing grass, and besides, the last bus into town had already left.
Unwilling to be thwarted, we sent a detachment to the chapel area after lights out, dug up all the grass and laid it over the ditch. The following day, we immediately went to the First Sergeant and asked him to re-inspect the ditch. He was certain we would fail, but to his chagrin, we had accomplished our ‘mission impossible,’ and were finally allowed to go into town.
The town was Leesville, Louisiana. The nickname – Disease-ville! We heard it said that if the United States ever needed an enema, this is where they would insert the hose. There were the usual time-warp amenities; the fat sheriff with the mirrored sun glasses, sitting on the porch of the jail in a rocker, hayseed in his mouth and a shotgun in his lap. The signs in the windows of the 3 bars along the dirt road “downtown” made it clear that there were “No niggers allowed.” The fact that we were in uniform made no difference. And there was the traditional “Whites Only” and “Colored Only” drinking fountains on the outside of one of the shack-like buildings.
On the “other side of the tracks,” literally, was a shack where we could buy liquor and various other “services.” I ordered a rum and coke, and after a couple of sips, started to feel ill. It was a kind of ill that I’d never felt before, so I headed back to the main part of town to get the bus back to the base.
I was feeling sicker and weaker by the moment, so upon return, I went immediately to bed. That was a Saturday, and since my “smart mouth” got me scheduled for KP the following Sunday morning, I decided I’d get caught up on sleep so I’d be ready for the next day’s duties.
I slipped off into what seemed coma-like sleep. The next thing I heard was the Mess Sergeant standing over me, telling me to get up, as I was scheduled to be in the kitchen a half hour ago. I felt like 10 lbs. of crap in a 5 lb. bag. I was hot all over, my face and hands were swollen, I was congested and could hardly breathe, so I told the Mess Sergeant I was going to have to go on “sick-call.”
It took me about 30 minutes to finally crawl out of bed, get dressed and head to the company office to request a ride to the infirmary, which was 8 miles away. After listening to the “candy-ass” speech, I was told I’d have to wait for the company jeep to return, which would be several hours. I wasn’t willing to wait, so I started out walking. I arrived there about an hour and a half later. It was now the middle of June, the temperature was 95 degrees, with the accompanying 100% humidity, and I felt like I was going to die. A nurse sat me down, stuck a thermometer in my mouth and had me start filling out paperwork.
When she removed the thermometer, it read 107 degrees. She immediately called for assistance, had me placed on a gurney and rolled me to what I later found out was the Spinal Meningitis ward. Turns out, there was an outbreak of Spinal Meningitis at the fort, and they had yet to locate the source. That is why they segregated our barracks by geographic location – to see who was more susceptible.
One nurse stuck an IV in my arm, another was applying ice packs to my forehead, another was rolling me to my side so she could give me a shot of penicillin. A doctor was furiously writing things on my chart while shouting instructions to the various nurses. Having worked in a hospital for nearly 6 years, I understood fully what he was saying, and basically he was using medical jargon to indicate that I probably wasn’t going to make it.
After all the attention being paid to me, all the assistants disappeared and I lay there feeling more and more numb and scared. Within the first 4 or 5 hours of lying there, they rolled out 4 people who were now dead and being taken to wherever they took dead people. For a brief moment, I thought I would I was seeing my fate roll by. But then I prayed, and resolved to not go home a corpse!
I finally drifted off to a much-needed sleep. That is, until time for my every three hour penicillin shot. Aside from the fact that the penicillin must have been kept in the refrigerator, the nurse wielding the syringe was merciless.
I was put on liquid-only diet, given ice baths 2-3 times a day, and my butt was starting to feel like a pin cushion. Several more corpses had been rolled past me during those several days, and my temperature had only gone down a couple of degrees.
Finally, on the 5th day, my temperature had gone down to 103, which meant, I could now eat solid food. Even though it was “Army food,” I was ecstatic with the news. I ate it so fast I barely saw what it was I was eating. The satisfaction was short-lived, as the food had my temperature go back up to 105 – back to liquid diet, and more days in the hospital. I was getting doubly nervous now, as there was just a couple of weeks left before the “Confidence Course” and graduation from Basic Training. To miss this course meant being “recycled.” This had nothing to do with saving the planet. This meant starting Basic Training all over again. The Confidence Course was a compilation of all the most rigorous of the various trainings we’d spent the past 14 ½ weeks going through. A five mile run in full gear (by now, I’ve gone from 147 lbs. to 180, plus the 120 lbs. of gear), climbing a 100 ft. rope, doing the run-dodge & jump, running across a 50 ft. log that spanned a 15 ft. deep gully filled with water, the horizontal ladder, the grenade toss, bayoneting 3 sand-bag dummies, doing the low-crawl for a hundred yards, through gravel and glass with barbed wire overhead, and all this had to be done in under 18 minutes. Seventeen minutes and 59 seconds meant another 16 weeks of hell, so, there was NO WAY I was going to go through all that again.
I convinced the head nurse, Lt. Lavin, to release me early, even though I was still running a fever. She said she really wasn’t supposed to do that, but since I was still alive after 5 days, 2 days longer than the rest in my ward that actually had Spinal Meningitis, she’d check on me again the next morning, and if my temperature dropped from 105 to 103, she’d OK my release.
I pleaded with the night nurse to let me take ice baths all night, and although she thought I was crazy, agreed. Let me just say here that unless you are dying, DON’T EVER take an ice bath! You can’t imagine the level of discomfort. The ONLY reason for referring to it as a ‘bath,’ is because it takes place in a tub.
By the next morning when Lt. Lavin checked my temperature, it was down to 103.5, and I begged her to let me go. If I stayed one more day, I would miss the Confidence Course and have to be recycled. She felt sorry for me, violated protocol and released me. I’m forever grateful to her for that.
Again, the company jeep wasn’t available, so I had to walk back to my company. I was given a note stating I was NOT to be assigned any duties prior to the Confidence Course, so I got to sleep and rest the rest of that Friday. The next day was the dreaded Confidence Course.
We got to “sleep late” that day – until 5am. My platoon was third in line to go through the course. Word floated down that at least 10-15 men of each platoon didn’t make the cut and were going to have to recycle. That was especially bad news for me, as I was the ONLY one who had spent the last week in the hospital. I had to fight with all my might the thoughts of failure, which were gaining strength by the minute.
Eventually, it was MY turn. By this time, I had resolved that I was either going to pass the test, or die trying. I got into position, the Drill Sergeant raised the starter pistol, hit the stop watch, and off I went. After only a few steps, I felt like my lungs were going to explode and my heart was going to burst through my chest. I was sweating so much it was blurring my vision. The only thing that kept me going was how much easier this was going to be than doing the entire 16 weeks all over again. I was bordering on delirium and on the verge of passing out, but somehow, I kept going. The experience soon became surreal and I was hallucinating.
Towards the end of the course, it felt like something was holding me up, and my breathing got a little easier. Finally, I reached the finish line, and heard the instructor yell out, “15 minutes, 23 seconds.”
I fell to my knees, grateful to God and who or whatever else was with me during the course, and was helped back to our barracks, where I immediately went into a deep sleep…
DOWN TO THE WIRE
It’s getting close to graduation day – something we all looked forward to since the day we arrived. All the “recycles” had already been transferred to their new company. I felt for them and was glad I wasn’t one of them.
We’re in morning formation. We had spent the past few days arranging to charter a plane back to Chicago. We got the best deal from Flying Tiger Air. Anyway, we’re counting down the days til the 2 week leave we’d been promised at the conclusion of our Basic Training and prior to our next assignment.
The morning formation, unlike all those in the past, was being addressed by the company commander. “Men, we’ve just received orders… this company has had its leave cancelled. We’re going from here, straight to Vietnam. Since we were an infantry company, this was very bad news.
The next thing out of his mouth was, “The ONLY men not shipping out to Nam are those who qualified for Officer Candidate School (a 6 month training program), Jump School (a 3 week training), Flight School (a 6-8 month training program, depending on the type of aircraft) and Special Forces (a minimum 1 year training program), so fall out, go call your families and let them know that you’re not coming home as originally planned.”
As we were walking towards the pay phones, I was rapidly going over in my mind what my next course of action should be. I was qualified to apply for all 4 of the categories our captain mentioned, but since Special Forces had the longest training period of them all, I figured if I DID end up having to go to Vietnam, at least I’d have a year and 16 weeks training instead of just 16 weeks, and I wouldn’t be in an infantry company. Not only that, but the war could possibly be over by the time I was through training. (Yes, I was a naïve 21 year old!).
So, instead of calling home, I called the Special Forces Procurement Officer and told him I’d had a change of heart and was ready to resign from the Draft Army and re-enlist for another 3 years. That was a life-changing event to say the least, and one for which I’m eternally grateful.
GRADUATION DAY
At last – the LAST day arrived. No longer on the 3am to midnight schedule, no longer are the Drill Sergeants our sworn enemies… they were actually smiling – something we thought they were incapable of. The noon formation was our last before departing for our various destinations. At Mail Call, my name rang out, and I thought it was another from my mom, or the current girlfriend, whose letters were more depressing than the training I was in, so I had resolved to break it off once I got home for leave.
The mail wasn’t from either of them. Instead, it was from Sandra, my ex. I was doubly shocked, first because I even got a letter from her, and secondly because there was no postage on it, and it wasn’t because it came off in transit. I was so excited to hear from her that I nearly ripped the envelope to bits opening it.
The news wasn’t good – her aunt, the woman who raised her, had passed away, and she was despondent and reaching out for comfort. Since I’d be home in less than 8 hours, I called her and let her know I’d see her soon. The friendship we’d established while dating at school was back. I wanted to marry her, and she wanted to marry me. I told her my future was uncertain; I suspected I’d end up in Vietnam, and didn’t want to risk her becoming a widow before we could ever start a life together. I also promised that if I DID get through it alive, the very first thing I’d do upon my return was to marry her.
We spent a couple of days and nights together, but it was clear that for her, the romance had gone and wasn’t likely to return (as she had gone back to her previous boyfriend that she was with from 1st grade until she got to college where we met). That was the last time I saw or heard from her until after I was out of the military. By then, she had married her childhood sweetheart. It took me another 3 years to get over it.
THE END, FOR NOW
I served a total of 1,278 days in the Army, and every single day was a story in itself. These were just a few, and every single serviceman and woman has their days of stories, events, heartbreaks, victories, wounds, and memories that will never leave them.
To them, I wish EVERY DAY to be a Memorial Day! (May 25, 2009)