Shortly after returning from my first MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) visit in the fall of my senior year in high school, my recruiting sergeant reviewed the results of my entrance mental test scores. He looked up some stuff here and there, and finally said to me, “well, how would you like to be a Basic Morse Intercept Operator in the ASA?” I heard of Morse Code before but I said, “what is the ASA?” He said, “the ASA is the Army Security Agency, a semi-secret military organization that produces spies and such, and one that you need a Top Secret security clearance for.” Wow, this sounded neat to me! He further stated “your test scores indicate that you can be a Morse Code guy, just missing the qualification cut-off for language school.”
I really didn’t want to learn a foreign language at this time. The recruiting sergeant indicated that this school lasted 48 weeks or so anyway. I was so tired of high school; I didn’t want to go to another long school anymore! I told him I would think about it during the year while I was finishing high school.
Well, I graduated high school in June 1966, and a month later, went on a fourteen-day canoe trip - with my soon-to-be "Army buddy” - to the Boundary Waters canoe area and Quetico Provincial Park, located in northern Minnesota and southern Ontario, Canada. It was a great trip, exhausting, and we met some neat and genuine folks along the way!
I spent a little more time doing odd things around my parent’s farm and painted the trim on my Aunts house. It was really hot out and I had the radio on constantly. The song "Hot Time, Summer in the City" by the Lovin Spoonful, was played repeatedly. "Back of my neck’s getting oh so gritty…" Also "Bus Stop" by the Hollies. These two songs, for some reason, burned into my memory forever - reminding me of the last precious days left before entering the Army.
We both joined the Army on August 21, 1966, two months after graduating high school in northern Illinois.
A few days before, the recruiter issued us our train tickets. So, on the morning of 21 August, we boarded the commuter train and went to the MEPs station in Chicago. I believe it was on Wells street. There, we re-did some of our entrance physical from the fall of '65, did lots of paperwork, said the oath, and Walla!
Late in the afternoon, an Army NCO issued us Army guys our train tickets - destination: St. Lewis - not scheduled to leave until late that night. With nothing to do for a few hours, my little group walked around the Chicago Loop and saw the Chicago River. It was a hot, muggy day! Nothing new for me. I saw this stuff plenty of times before when I used to visit my Grandparents as a kid. After dark, I remember looking up at the towering skyscrapers in all their brilliant glory. The evening brought out the beauty of all the different city lights in their breathtaking colors! Boo, the time finally came for the train ride southwest. Being young and stupid, I was really excited!
We boarded the train which thankfully had sleeper cars. This train was exciting to me because this was my first time for practically everything! Being real tired, we turned in ASAP. The train started to roll around midnight, both of us noticing its vibrations and guttural roars. I fell asleep quickly but woke every two-hours or so because of the noise, and not knowing where I was at for that instant. We traveled all night, reaching St. Louis sometime in the early morning. I knew we were getting close because I could see the, yet unfinished, St. Louis Gateway Arch. It only had a small section left to go at the top, connecting the two sides.
Arriving at the St. Louis train station, we all got off the train and milled around and waited. Eventually an Army Liaison NCO came over and said our busses to Fort Leonard Wood would be around some time early in the afternoon. About 2 pm they did arrive. Boarding, we all knew our freedom was coming to an end!
The 135-mile ride from St. Louis, down the I-44 expressway towards Waynesville, was picturesque and I savored every minute. I really didn’t want to ever arrive at the fort. We finally arrived, going underneath a sign saying: “Welcome to the Fort Leonard Wood Reception Station – Home of the Combat Engineers!” Once there, I noticed a group of NCOs standing around all wearing “Smokey-the-Bear” hats. Immediately, an older NCO boarded the bus and yelled, “you have nine-seconds to get off this bus and eight have already gone by! Move!!” He continued: "Your ass is grass, and I'm the lawn mower!" I didn’t know I could move so fast. Neither did the rest of the passengers!
The DIs [Drill Instructors] lined us up in columns of two; each individual - in the front row - standing on painted feet on the asphalt, and told us to drop our luggage. Going up and down the ranks, they muttered stuff like, “yous menses, straight up before yous gets a boot where da sun don'ts shines.” Along with other words you couldn’t make out. The more you didn’t understand, the madder they got! These guys turned out to be the last of the World War II vets still left in the Army! Leaving our luggage in place, they herded us, in an orderly fashion of course, to the mess hall for the evening meal.
After chow, the same DIs herded us back to pick up our luggage, then herded us to a supply room to get linen and wool blankets. Then on to some old “temporary” WWII wooden barracks that were to be our home while at the Reception Station. Before dismissal for the evening, we were told a number that we were to fall-in behind in the morning.
“All personnel out of bed! Fall-in on your red-plate number!” That was the call, over and over again, on the loudspeaker the following morning. Yeah, at o’dark thirty! My groups red-plate number was 19-A-1. Floodlights lit up the gravel lot that was our mustering area. The hot, humid, Missouri air added to the discomfort. I was in a state of shock. The night before was pure hell trying to sleep over the loud incessant talk of uncertainty. This is when I picked up my life-long habit of sleeping with a pillow over my head.
There were hundreds of would-be soldiers, each section in line behind their own magical number. DIs went up and down the lines yelling for everyone to shut up, stand straight, and listen-up. Each section received orders on what they were going to do. For us, haircuts and uniform-issue was first on the agenda.
Those contract barbers must have been pretty desperate with their lives to do such a job. Of course it was easy, just shave everyone’s head! In those days guys didn’t wear their hair long anyway so there wasn’t much to remove. Not like the hippie-types a couple of years later. We weren’t told anything, and most imagined that short hair took away ones identity. Definitely part true. But in reality, since we were in such close quarters in the barracks, with thirty guys to a floor and in bunk beds, and hair lice and fleas a potential problem, short hair made personal hygiene easier. So, there we were with bald heads. Felt good in the Missouri heat.
Uniform issue was a riot. I could smell moth-balls. Looked like the uniform building was manned by a bunch of retired NCO burn-outs that had an eye for size! Anything "close" was close enough for government work! I knew my shoe size at least, nine-regular, and got a couple of pairs of good-fitting boots. They didn’t take much breaking in. This proved to be a blessing because in those days, there was no such thing as running shoes. Your boots served the purpose, for everything!
The three-sets of OD fatigues already had black and yellow Army tape-plates over the left pocket. We stood in line for our white name plates to be made and sewn on, over the right pocket. Next, they made up our black plastic name plates for our kakis and class-A’s. Then the dog-tags, their ever lasting clinking noise forever burned in my memory! Everything went into this relatively small OD green duffle bag. The issue saucer-cap never looked the same again!
Once uniforms where issued, we were marched to the post office to mail home our AWOL-bags containing our "Civvies."
Marched back to the barracks, we were told to be in the fatigue uniform, boots, and head-gear from now on. After chow, the DIs taught us some facing movements, enough to be marched around by anyway. That afternoon found us at the shot-clinic, and shots we got! We lined up for at least five shots initially. They were administered by guns, and if you moved, they’d slice your skin slicker than a razor blade! At the barracks again after evening chow, we were told to Brasso our belt buckles until all the lacquer was off, and put a spit shine on our boots before the next morning formation. Of course no one knew how to do either, so it was a long night.
“All personnel out of bed! Fall-in on your red plate number!” I got out of bed and my arms and shoulders felt like they were to fall off! Boy they ached! What kind of Hell did I get myself into? All I could hear was the clinking of dog-tags, belt buckles, and the slapping on of boots. A ritual to be followed each morning from now on.
Back to the shot-clinic for at least five more shots. What a nightmare! Then we were marched to another old building to take some more academic tests. After noon chow, and back on “the red plate numbers,” we were divided up into smaller groups to pull various details. Some got put on KP (Kitchen Police) while I lucked out and got in the group put on weed control. We were trucked to some place on post and issued these weed-whackers, and told to "go to it" until further notice! It was hot and the worst part was removing the weeds on a slope that was topped with a cyclone fence. My arms still ached from the shots and each swing gave me a new question as to why I joined the Army? A new pain to think about as well - blisters!
The next few days went on like drudgery. We performed more details and learned even more jobs, like how to do police-call. We lined up at double-arm intervals and the DI yelled out “move out and keep abreast, pick up everything that isn’t permanently affixed or doesn’t grow! I want to see nothing but elbows and ass holes!” Cigarette butts where the main culprits, purposely put there by the Cadre the night before. They used to clean out their car ash-trays right on the streets.
The worst detail was to clean the various clubs on post. Stale booze and cigarettes filled the place, and sticky table-tops and floors. It was at least a six-hour job for four recruits. Cleaning the table-tops, moving them and the chairs to one side of the floor, mopping the floor, putting wax down and buffing it out. Then moving the chairs and tables back to the opposite side and doing the other side of the floor. Washing endless glasses and ash trays, taking out the garbage, cleaning the gross latrines. Occasional vomit on the floor. What a stinking mess!
Some of us had to go back to the clinic to get new prescriptions to our “issue” glasses. These glasses were black-rimed and ugly. Called “F—K me nots” by some, “birth-control” glasses by others. I noticed this one guy, a heavy-set SP/5 (Specialist Fifth-Class), who kept taking slugs of a clear-colored liquid occasionally. This was odd behavior! Later and back at the barracks, one of the older recruits told me that this guy was probably hooked on some morphine-based cough medicine, or whatever. I shook my head!
The day finally came when my group was told we were diverted to start Basic Training. We gladly got our gear together and tossed those duffle bags up into the back of our "duce." After a twenty-minute ride, we arrived at our basic training company at about 1630 hours. It was called B-5-2. Stood for Company B, Fifth Battalion, Second Combat Training Brigade. Those WWII barracks looked good for a change. The "goat f__k" commenced ASAP but at least we felt we were progressing forward in this Army-game.
The old barracks had approximately seven bunk-beds on each side of the center-isle, two floors worth. The many 4 x 4 posts supporting the roof had red-painted #10 butt-cans hung on them, each about 4 feet off the floor and filled 1/3 full of water. What a nasty brew they became! There were two squad rooms located by the rear door on the first floor, and the latrine was to the right just inside the front entrance. The latrine had three commodes near the left-most wall, with no partitions. No privacy here! Sinks lined one wall, urinals on the opposite wall. The shower room looked as if it was lined by wrap-around welded tin or zinc, or whatever.
At the top of the stairs were two more squad rooms on the left, and a drinking fountain in front, complete with its gray-plastic salt-tablet dispenser. Turning right, the first thing seen were rifle racks. Yeah, in those days, the M-14’s were locked up in heavy-duty wooden A-frames and stored in the barracks. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on one! Oh, my bunk was the first on the left. Butt-cans on this floor as well!
We were told we couldn’t get to sleep until the barrack was completely GI’d and inspected. The DI assigned to my platoon inspected frequently and rejected the building each time. This went on until 0200 hours or so. Wake-up was to be at 0430! The sound of those damned dog-tags and brass belt buckles become a sickening sound to hear each morning; announcing the beginning of a new nightmare. I mean - day.
The first morning of Basic Training started out by being yelled out of the rack and told the uniform was class-B, or khakis. After chow, we were assembled by platoons and marched en-mass to Cutter Field House, one of the Army’s old-style, all-wooden, and huge structures. To make matters worse, it was still dark out and drizzling! In those days, the Army had an “issue” plastic full-length rain coat that we had to wear over our uniform. It didn’t breath and you actually got wetter from your sweat than from the rain. After a twenty-minute march, we were marched single-file into our seats by squad, by platoon, by the DI’s yelling out “file from the left, column left, march” and on into the field house. There must have been a couple of thousand recruits there, all from the different Basic Training Brigades on post. Remember, this was late-summer 1966, and Vietnam has really heating up.
Standing at the “position of attention” in front of our seats - until everyone was inside - someone yelled out “take yaw seats!” and in crashing unison, everyone did. The Commanding General of Fort Leonard Wood led off with “as of a short-time ago, the country was now at a state-of-war, and we were in it!” We recruits had been kept in the dark about any news for days now and no one knew the difference! All the possibilities of who we might be at war with raced through my mind, thinking that the U.S.S.R. was it.
I immediately thought of my dad, who was a WWII South Pacific combat Marine, and the stories he told me when the real-thing went down at Pearl Harbor on 07 December, 1941. He was on board a heavy-cruiser at the time, helping escort the carrier Enterprise deliver F4F-Wildcats to Wake Island, when he first heard. Things were so desperate then and the Marines and Sailors resigned to the fact that they were not coming home and that they were going to take as many “J----“ with them as possible! I thought how ironic this was that I (I thought) was about to go through the same deal now.
The General continued and gave us a big pep-talk, Patton-style, on how proud the country was that we were about to embark on a much-appreciated tour of duty. After about thirty-minutes he was followed by the various Brigade Commanders saying much the same thing. We were finally ordered “on yaw feet!” and with the same crashing roar, got up and filed out in reverse order, of how we came in better than an hour before.
Assembled back by platoons, into our Bravo-Five-Two Company, we were marched back to the company-area. Well, my training cycle was about to begin! We were ordered to “fall out” and change immediately into fatigues and be back in formation in five-minutes! During our change, it didn’t take the older recruits long to figure out that the leading statement the C. G. said to us was just a bunch of smoke being blown up our asses - just to get us in the right mind-set! No war, other than what was going on in Vietnam of course. I breathed a sigh of relief as the DI’s whistle blew.
My platoon Drill Instructor was SFC (Sergeant First-Class) Ferrell. He talked as though he had a broken jaw at one time, hardly moving his jaw or lips. He didn’t shout, but that didn’t matter as far as how quickly you adhered to his orders! He was about 6’0” and had a thin build. Looked very professional all the way around! He was another one of those WWII vets that was on his last tour before retirement. He had a 24th Infantry patch on his right shoulder and a CIB (Combat Infantry Badge) over his left pocket. In the end, we all learned to love this man. He really was concerned and took care of us.
Since I was in the first platoon, we took pride in being the first out the door at morning whistle, geared-up and ready to lead the rest. My “buddy-system” buddy was in the second platoon, since his name started with the letter “M.” My basic training company had five platoons in total, each containing roughly 60 soldiers.
First-thing each morning was PT (physical fitness training). We did it in the morning since the weather was hot and humid. I was glad I had just gotten out of high school and survived spring track. Our assistant track coach had just retired from the Marine Corps, and was tough! We called him "General Patton." My running was a breeze, seeing the old draftees falling out and rolling down the ditches at each bend of the road. Since there weren’t any females integrated yet in regular basic training, our chants included “ I don’t know but I’ve been told, Eskimo pu__y’s mighty cold! Are we right or wrong? We’re right! Are we going strong? We’re strong!” or “Women, no good! Pu__y, so good! Left- right-left-your right…”
Then we’d march to the crushed-rock/pea-gravel lots where we’d do sit-ups, rifle-drills, push-ups, etc. Our dazzling white “T” shirts got dirty real quick! Then back to the company area to go through the monkey-bars. These were killers! Each rung took a piece of meat out of your hand. These monkey-bars were done each time we did PT, went to chow three-times daily, payday, you name it! Some guys literally had raw meat for hands, but still had to do them, breaking open their sores each time. I was raised on a farm so my hands were pretty tough and I didn’t have that much upper-body weight accumulated yet. Those poor draftees that were generally older. They took it tough in everything!
If the afternoon was too humid, based on a wet-ball reading, we were marched to a wooded-area Where we studied our FM 21-13 The Soldiers Guide
Talking about draftees, those that had a “US” prefix in front of their service numbers where fair game by the DIs. They were dogged worse than us RAs. Every week or so, the USs (draftees) had to go to interviews to be “persuaded” into revising their enlistments for one more year, get to go to a school, and enhance their chances of getting out of going to the “Nam!” Most were determined to do their two-years and get out. Some took the advice, thus making their basic training lives more bearable and being “safer” afterwards.
My "candy-striper" platoon guide was a heavy-set 29 year-old who had a rough time. I tried to help him all the time. He was a great-hearted guy and a natural leader, and I couldn’t help but make his life easier whenever I could. All it took was an assist with a helping hand here, boost there, while not letting the DIs see you. I hope he did ok after basic! After all, the Combat Engineer AIT was only a duffle-bag drag away - the next block over. Years later, stationed near DC, I didn’t see his name on the Vietnam wall. I had my basic training graduation book with me, and to my grief, some names where there!
Pay-day was always an experience. I cleared all but $78 and the Army had the audacity to have a series of tables set up next to the pay-officer. Yeah, to collect money for US Saving Bonds, the unit fund, graduation plaques, etc, etc! I was lucky to have $50 bucks left over most months! Well, we did get “three hots and a cot.” I wasn’t married. So what else was there to spend money on? Heaven knows we didn’t get to go anywhere to spend it. I think the Army did it on purpose to cut down on the loose cash we had to stash away. You had to keep your wall locker locked at all times or face extra-duty!
While on an over-night road march, near-by Waynesville had a tornado. The rain was terrific and sleeping, once you struggled to get your half of the shelter-half up, was out of the question. My sleeping bag was soaked, and down doesn’t generate much body heat while wet! I had border-line hypothermia. I couldn’t stop shaking! Daybreak revealed a scene similar to the aftermath of a Civil War battlefield or something. Equipment and tents scattered all over the place. The DIs went berserk and we were up and at it in no time paying the price! The march finished out leading us by a platoon that was in their final week of basic. We had to endure all the hazing and language that we too, would soon be able to utter! But who was counting the days?
Pugil-stick training was the most grueling. It was much like the bayonet training we had earlier, with the "spirit of the bayonet is to kill!” motto. We had to put on football helmets and grab these six-foot poles, each tipped on both ends with some sort of padding. The object, like in bayonet fighting, is to knock down your opponent and kill him! My company had to form a large circle and count-off. First, one of the DIs would demonstrate on some poor fool. Then, he’d call out two numbers. The fight was on! My opponent was a little older, heavier, and taller than me. He was ASA bound as me, going to DLI (Defense Language Institute in Presidio of Monterey, CA) for Arabic language training. From Wisconsin, I believe. All I remember was getting hit in the head and waking up while being dragged off.
The gas chamber was second-most. They warned us not to shave in the morning. You guessed it, at first formation they inspected and “dropped” all of us for not shaving. At the site, we got the “GAS” warning and all put on the protective mask within nine-seconds as required. They then herded us, by squads, into a shack, where some sicko-lifer NBC NCO waited to get us. And get us he did! He ordered us to un-mask, and state our name, rank, and serial number. Well, most didn’t make it that far and immediately started to vomit, blow foot-long snot out of our noses, and fight to get the Hell out of the building. Outside didn’t seem to offer much relief, for a while anyway. First thing you did was fall over some NCO that conveniently lay down outside the doorway. After four or five more recruits fell onto the pile, you got up and ran off somewhere. After a bit, the DIs rounded us up again, and after some laughing at our expense, marched us off to “air out”.
M-14 rifle qualification was the third-most grueling, for me anyway. My Army-issue glasses weren’t worth a damn and I couldn’t see anything at a distance. That optometrist I saw back at the reception station must have been on drugs. Somehow I zeroed early, and for a reward, got sent back to the company to pull KP in order to relieve others that had to go out and zero.
The qualifying range came a couple of days later. Luckily it was a beautiful, sunny day! Since I couldn’t see anything at a distance, all I could do was respond to the glint off the pop-up targets as they came up. In the end, I didn’t knock enough of them down to qualify, and got recycled for another day. My day came soon again and I borrowed a buddies glasses, whose prescription was relatively close to mine. I was so nervous, the massive kick from the rifle made me fire off multiple rounds before I could get my finger away from the trigger. Luckily I had enough left to qualify as “marksman,” the lowest level. I had a black and blue shoulder from the rifle and a headache from the glasses, but I wasn’t complaining!
About mid-way through Basic, we were allowed to go to the PX and check it out. Some guys bought radios - that where then allowed to be played in the evening. I was surprised to hear the old familiar WLS - 89.0 Chicaaagooo! WLS had a large wattage broadcasting range in those days, even to Missouri. I even heard it later in my enlistment, out at Vint Hill Farms station in Warrenton, VA., just outside of D.C. A nice familiar sound when away from home!
In order to graduate, we also had to take an end-of-cycle PT Test. We had to run one mile for time, throw hand grenades for points, do the obstacle course - which included those dreaded monkey bars, and some other events I can’t remember now. We had one guy in our platoon who was a champion track runner in college. He ran the mile, in combat boots of course, in four minutes and something. Wow! I was lucky and got a high number of points, which helped make me E-2 out of basic. I saw that on the back of my pay stub was printed the All-Ranks Army pay-scale. One of the older guys explained it to me. Well, hot shit! I guess they could promote 20% of the company out of basic. Made the instructors look good as well. The Company Commander and Cadre signed our end-of-cycle score cards indicating our achievements in each category.
About this time, those of us going to Fort Devens were called into the orderly room and briefed on the AIT (Advanced Individual Training) we were about to attend after graduation. We each received a piece of paper verifying this briefing. Big deal! I'm glad I was about to graduate from Basic. Waking up every morning to the jingle of dog-tags and brass belt buckels was really getting old.
Our graduation day was warm and sunny. It was late October and the Missouri climate held true. We paraded along a dusty field in front of the Brigade and Regimental brass, and the post General and his staff. The Fort Leonard Wood Army band played all the popular marching songs, and the Brigade, Regimental, and Company guidon flags flew smartly. I’m glad I didn’t have to carry one of them! We were in kakis and carrying our M-14’s, and told to blouse our boots. Blouse our boots? Our training dictated that only airborne troops were allowed to “blouse their boots.” Well, we got to because the 2nd Brigade, along with their airborne slice, did something great in WWII, which allowed the tradition ever since!
My folks got to come and witness the graduation. My platoon DI had us re-clean our M-14’s as a grand-finale. Nothing was good enough. We had to linseed-oil the wooden stocks, but not get any on the metal parts. My folks were out in the parking lot waiting to see me, before I shipped off to Fort Devens, Massachusetts. After what seemed a life-time, my weapon passed and I was able to go out there to see them. My platoon guide met my sister and fell immediately in-love.
We had to stay a couple more days at the company before our flights were arranged. It was laid-back and we could do anything we wanted. Some infantry-types went into Waynesville and got tattoos. A few DIs came by and talked to us as if we were finally human beings. I thought that was pretty cool! I really appreciated their professionalism and, to an eighteen year-old mind, basically loved these guys. They truly "lead by example!"
I looked at my Basic Training cycle-book, specifically looking at the graduation message by the Post Commander, Major General Lipscomb. I thought to myself, "I'm sure glad I'm finally on this side of BCT. AMEN!"