Potato People: Tales from the Trenches of the U.S. Army—1967 to 1970

By Jack Schmitt

The book details the adventures of the eldest son of a working-class family from the urban Midwest who enters the army in the late 1960s and is transformed from a naive cowboy idolizer into a devious, larcenous, gun-carrying reprobate. He delves into the world of black market activities, prostitutes, drugs, and race relations and emerges a callous man for whom death is divided into two basic classes: bodies that are sent away and those that are dismissed as the impersonal enemy.

Raised in an all-white environment and having had only one long-term exposure to a person of color, during a short period attending a seminary, he was taught to treat others fairly or to ignore them if their behavior warranted it. In the army, he encounters young men from every part of the country. Some require special treatment, while others introduce him to layers of the spectrum of life, which he did not know existed. He receives specialized training and, instead of being sent directly to Vietnam, is dispatched to Germany to participate in the Cold War in a very active manner.

While in the army from 1967 to 1970, he wrote over five hundred letters, many to a girl with whom relations ended upon his return from Vietnam. She gave all the letters back, and they stayed on a shelf, waiting to fulfill the promise to someday write a book about the things that happened. His father also returned the letters that were written to him, which described the language used, the abuse suffered, and the status of race and homosexual relations, as well as the horrors of war, in no uncertain terms. The letters remained untouched for nearly fifty years, but he would sometimes recount an incident to friends or family, receiving in return an urging to write the stories for them. His older daughter chronologically organized the letters, while his other daughter edited the manuscript as it was being written.

The idea to write this book, as well as its title, struck while joking with fellow GI’s in the barracks about someday telling the world that no one would believe the things they were doing in the name of serving their country. They would develop audacious pranks to outdo one another or minimalize a situation and just be glad to live another day. They often remarked about spending parents’ and grandparents’ tax money on atrocious wastes of effort and material.

The military personnel during the late ’60s fit three distinct categories: juicers, heads, and straights. The first included men from every state, since almost everyone drank now and then. The second referred to the use of acid by some, while smokers and dopers fit right in. Lastly, there were some individuals who preferred not to get wasted by any means. Homosexuals and blacks could occupy any of the groups. The story details army life for a middle-class Midwest man who is introduced to conditions and concepts he had never imagined in Europe, then in the States, and finally in Vietnam. The intended audience is adult, mostly because of the language and the portrayal of man’s cruelty to man, while on the other hand, the book is both nostalgic as well as informative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796014495

Jack Schmitt

Jack Schmitt was honorably discharged in 1970, after having signed an affidavit to remain silent for a number of years under penalty of monetary fine and/or imprisonment. He had been repeatedly sent into Laos at a time when any American presence there was being denied by the U. S. government. He discontinued contact with friends and family, returned to finish college and joined a fraternity, choosing to live on campus rather than at home. His veteran status was known to the frat, and he was immediately elected to the role of House Manager. He was never singled out for the standard birthday hazing by the brotherhood, who were all several years younger, and were possibly afraid of Jack. Their motivation for inviting him into the frat was to have someone old enough to purchase alcohol. He married after completing his college education, and during a conversation with his wife, was finally able to admit that the opposing victims of warfare were people, not the dehumanized enemy he had been trained to eliminate. He continued to be haunted by nightmares involving blood and terror in the jungle. His wife, whom he had met a year after his discharge from the Army, happened to encounter a PTSD therapist at a seminar. She had endured Jack's nightmares through nearly twenty years of marriage. Jack had honored the intent of the affidavit, never disclosing his whereabouts or his missions across the border into Laos. Meeting with the therapist led to attendance at PTSD sessions in a VA Hospital. One by one the other Vietnam veteran patients committed suicide or were incarcerated, leaving Jack as the only person seeking treatment. A second group was formed, with the same result. Jack could speak to the cause of his nightly waking, but the palpable blue cloud of depression would not leave. Ultimately, a Police Social Worker was able to make sense of his discomfort, leaving Jack with a treatable sleep deprivation disorder. In 1990, he began to drain his memories, manually writing page after page from Day One of his entry into the Army. He had tried joining the local VFW Post, at the behest of a church member, but withdrew immediately when their first request was for him to march in uniform. He avoided reading books about the war, and was deeply shaken during a visit to the Wall in Washington, D.C. With a Bachelor's Degree in Civil Engineering and a Master's in Engineering Management, Jack Schmitt spent over four decades designing roads in Illinois. He also served as a part-time instructor for twenty-five years, preparing candidates to take their licensing exam, as well as developing and presenting courses as a faculty member at Midwest College of Engineering. He published a children's book, Toby and the Princess, based upon a story he concocted for his children during bath time. He published an engineering text entitled Plans, Special Provisions and Contract Plan Reviews as well as numerous on-line courses for continuing education. Married for nearly forty-five years, he and his wife, both retired, enjoy traveling and babysitting their grandchildren. Jack has a musical background as a self-taught drummer, is a decorated Viet Nam veteran, and established Red Pencil Ltd., a Service-Disabled Veteran-Owned Business, providing civil engineers with on-line seminars on a variety of roadway fundamentals.

Book preview

1

DRAFT NOTICES

Countless millions of young American boys grew up in the 1950s playing make-believe and spending their days with pretend games of cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, or just plain soldiers. Their fathers and uncles had served in the military, and their boys, whom society would soon label as baby boomers, shared a common theme—their playtime involved conflict. They imagined being at war, using toy guns, cap pistols, air rifles, or sometimes just mop handles and broomsticks, yelling, Bang!, as they pointed their weapons at each other and shouted, Gotcha! You’re dead! Then they would wait to make sure that their target had fallen. The opponent sometimes needed convincing before he acknowledged that he was shot, but once down, he could get up and resume play, taking cover from another position such as a garbage can or the doorway of a garage.

Johnny was no exception, imagining himself on a battlefield, surrounded by the sights and sounds that he thought must exist there. He spent hours playing in the backyard, alley, or park, envisioning himself in a trench, foxhole, or fortress, repelling an enemy attack with a rifle or a machine gun. Or charging alone at a small patrol of enemy soldiers, dispatching them with ease in a hand-to-hand struggle. His father had served during World War II, and had brought home a variety of items, such as a web belt, canteen, mess kit, steel pot helmet and sidearm holster. Johnny wore these items as he would play. None of the neighbor kids had any of the gear that he had, so he always felt as if he were special, running through the alley with the helmet wobbling on his head, the canteen and holster pulling down on the web belt. His accessories helped him spur his imagination farther as he played, wishing that he had a rifle or a submachine gun.

He could picture being in many of the combat scenes that he would see on television or at the movies. There was only one part that he found hard to imagine: What does it really feel like to be the attacker? He often wondered, What does a person think about just before landing on the beach? And What is it like to have them shooting at you? And How do you charge out of that landing craft, onto the beach when the enemy is pouring machine-gun fire in your direction? Thoughts such as these would flood his mind, and he would feel the cold hand of fear, a fear of the unknown, well up inside him with a sick clutch in the pit of his stomach, forcing him to dispel the unpleasant vision of being the target in the sights of someone else’s gun. Little did he know it, but he would have the chance to experience many of those feelings firsthand, as would tens of thousands of other boys his age, during the period encompassing the nightmare that was known as Vietnam.

Cowboys on television programs could also stoke on his imagination, and he would spend hours playing with his toy six-guns, pretending to have a showdown with an outlaw or standing and drawing against an adversary. One of his favorite television heroes was dressed all in black. He must have liked to watch that man more than any other, because his father nicknamed him Hoppy and would rarely use his own name.

In grade school, he had learned from the nuns about the French experience in Indochina, of how the Viet Minh were small in stature, not even reaching the armpit of the average American, but had somehow managed to defeat the French Army. As America’s involvement in Vietnam grew during the early 1960s, the idea of fighting communism to keep its perceived domino effect from eventually spreading across Asia and somehow making its way to the United States became a focus of attention and a common topic on the news.

Upon graduating high school, and turning eighteen a few days thereafter, Johnny fulfilled his duty by registering with the Selective Service System, throwing his name into what most people referred to as the draft board, where it would sit and wait with the names of all his fellow high school graduates until the Grim Reaper reached out from the swirls of fate and grabbed one of them. Nothing happened that summer, so he then enrolled at a Chicago City Junior College to pursue a pre-engineering curriculum, which was driven by his reading about Julius Caesar and the engineering accomplishments that Roman legionaries achieved. Amid the pressures of the time, he knew that he would have to keep his grades up or suffer the loss of a 2-S deferment, which was intended to prevent the draft from scooping him up, so he delved into his studies and maintained an almost straight A average.

The local draft board was composed of civilians within one’s neighborhood, often unknown, and therefore not easily approached. The board was tasked with meeting quotas established by someone higher up the ladder and would submit names on a routine basis. With each set of submissions, the task of protesting one’s selection fell on the individual who had been drafted. On two separate occasions, once in his first year and once in his second year, Johnny received a draft notice in the mail and had to stand in line with many others to see the dean of students in order to obtain a Certificate of Good Standing showing his grades and attendance record, which then had to be mailed to the draft board. If the draft board accepted the certificate and selected someone else, a deferment could be kept. He followed their procedures, knowing full well that his number might come up sooner or later, and if not for the deferment, he would probably have to go into the service and then to Vietnam.

Every so often, he would learn through his church or local grocer or other social circles that someone he knew or whose name was familiar had perished in that war. It made him think, If I could just get a degree, I might be able to get in as an officer and not just a regular soldier. However, being the oldest in a family of six, continuing college at a full university was out of the reach of his parents’ pocketbook, but it was a hopeful thought, so Johnny kept it alive at the back of his mind. He thought that a two-year degree would not be worth anything but could not see a way to change his financial situation. He was the oldest of six siblings, and monetary help from the family was out of the question.

As it turned out, during the week of the worst snowstorm of that winter, upon opening the third familiar envelope containing that dreaded letter, which began Greetings from the President of the United States, Johnny decided that he needed to talk to someone who might have the answers to the questions that had begun to plague him. Questions such as, Is everyone sent into the infantry? Don’t they care if I might know how to do something? Are all the stories true? Do they really make truck drivers into radio operators and shoe salesmen into cooks? Is there any way to be noticed? Do they try to use a person’s interests or intelligence? He was determined not to be taken in as just another warm body without trying to find out if there were any options. So after the last class of the day, Johnny ventured over to the recruitment office, conveniently located about a block away from his junior college.

Apparently, Johnny was blessed with a liberal dose of beginner’s luck in his first dealings with Uncle Sam’s Green Machine.

The posters on the wall of the small storefront office glared down at him. Uncle Sam Wants You was there, the same as it always appeared on subway walls and on smaller billboards at major street intersections. But there were others that he had not seen before. One had the word Ordinance while another said Armor. There was Artillery, Communications, Aviation, and Maintenance. Each was done in the same proud fashion, with pictures of eager young soldiers in different positions, using equipment associated with the single word on the poster. All the posters had the same subtitle: See Your Local Recruiter."

Can I help you, son? Johnny looked toward one of the two desks in the room, behind which sat a lean, middle-aged man in uniform, unseen until he had spoken. He had been momentarily stunned by the man’s use of the word son. No one but his father had ever addressed him as son. He swallowed hard and nodded.

Have a seat. Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s a fresh pot. He gestured to the chair across from his desk and rose to extend his hand for a handshake. His grip was firm, his hand warm; and with two firm squeezes, he released Johnny’s hand. From the stripes on his sleeves, Johnny guessed that this was some sort of sergeant. The man could have been somewhere in his late thirties, with a good tan and close-cropped hair. A pleasant smile broke out across the man’s weathered face, reminding Johnny of a gym teacher that he knew at the city college, who coached track and field, and spent a lot of time outdoors.

Yes, thank you, sir, said Johnny as he sat down on the gray tubular metal folding chair.

I’m Master Sergeant Witters, son. And please drop the ‘sir’ stuff. That’s only for officers, he said good-naturedly and then turned to grab a pair of white coffee mugs from the credenza behind his desk. I only have powdered creamer and packets of sugar.

Just plain black coffee is fine by me, Johnny said as he looked at the uniform. The short-sleeved khaki shirt had three upward stripes and three curves underneath. That’s the same as Sergeant Bilko on TV, he said to himself. The epaulets on Witters’s shoulders had a green patch with some sort of medal on top. A blue braid passed from beneath one epaulet and went down under his arm. Just like ROTC in high school, Johnny mused. The more outstanding features of the uniform became apparent as Witters turned back with the coffee mugs. Extending one to Johnny, Witters sat, and Johnny saw that there were four rows of slim, multicolored rectangular ribbons on one side of Witters’s chest, above which was a medal with a rifle on a blue background and a thin silver laurel wreath. There was also a silver parachute medal, and on the other side of his chest, he had a name tag and more little rectangles in red and blue with a yellowish frame around each one. As Johnny took a sip of the coffee, he saw finer details of the uniform—tiny stars, dates, or pieces of bronze or gold droplets attached to some of the ribbons. There were also two silver badges on Witters’s breast pocket below the rows of ribbons. They appeared to be a sort of cross shape with a bull’s-eye in the center of each and three tiny shingles attached, hanging down below. Johnny saw letters on the shingles but could not read the words.

The complete uniform struck Johnny as being quite impressive, and not the least bit gaudy or pretentious. This guy must be some Sergeant Rock or John Wayne type who loves to go to war, he thought. Probably wanted to be some gung-ho marine, but if he got all those medals, he maybe was a marine, and maybe …

Well, son, first off, tell me your name, so I can quit callin’ you son, Witters interrupted Johnny’s train of thought as he took his seat. Then tell me what I can do for you today." Witters moved a few pieces of paper to one side of his desk, took a pad of yellow paper from a drawer of a file cabinet behind him, and pulled a pencil out of the desk drawer.

He had gone by the name Johnny since grade school, when he was one of a half dozen boys named John, and the nuns merely added a boy’s middle initial to the name in order to distinguish one from another, so there was a John A., a John M., and several others besides John E. My name is John. I’m nineteen years old, attending college with a 2-S deferment and holding on to a Certificate of Good Standing. I just received my third draft notice, and well, what I’d like to know is, uh, well, how’s the chances of me picking out what I’d like to do, or do they just stick me anywhere, and should I keep getting another certificate so I can finish this school year, and can I go to some kind of school in the service, or …

Slow down, John, said Witters. One thing at a time. Now, you say you’ve gotten induction notices before and had them rescinded with a cert, so for this one, let’s establish your remaining time before you have to report to the induction center.

"March 20 is when I have to be at the induction center, so I guess I have about three weeks left.

All right, John, now let’s establish some priorities. You indicated that you are still in college. Will you earn a degree at the end of this school year?

No, sir. I mean, sorry, Sergeant, no, I won’t get a degree yet. I need a few more courses, and then I’d have an associate’s degree in engineering.

OK, John. Engineering, huh? That’s good. However, you will need a degree to get right in to OCS after Basic. Let me pull some information out of the files so that we can discuss options. Do you want more coffee?

No, thanks. It’s good but no, thanks.

As Witters got up and pulled open a drawer in another file cabinet behind him, it appeared to John that the man’s mind was working at a logical, clear-cut military pace. He didn’t seem to be one to try to trick the young men who occasionally came into his office—he had too much at stake to go that route. His good health, for one thing.

Witters had been in the recruitment field for nearly thirteen months and had learned not to try to pull fast ones on his clients. Too many rankled relatives to deal with when that happened after the kid wrote home to say he got screwed. The first time he had tried to fill a quota for the infantry had been with an assignment of an enlistee who wanted electronics. Four months later, the boy died during his first week in Vietnam, and his family showed up one night looking for blood. They might have stabbed him to death had the police not arrived. Witters spent almost two months recuperating from multiple stab wounds after that. He didn’t press charges but vowed never again to buckle to the heat from above. If a man wanted electronics, or any damn thing for which he was qualified, Witters would do his best to give him that option.

OK, John, Witters said as he returned to the desk with a few recruitment pamphlets related to engineering. We have enough time remaining for you to take a few quick aptitude tests. I can get them processed and in a couple of days, I can let you know what your chances are of getting into a particular MOS school—

MOS? Johnny inquired, interrupting Witters.

MOS stands for military occupational specialty. We all fit into one of them. Mine is 79R. Engineering is a very wide field, so we need to try to narrow it down for you. Then if you still want to enlist rather than be drafted, you may do so. How’s that sound?

Johnny replied, Yeah, that’s good. That sounds real good.

Now, first, John, we don’t have enough time to complete the tests today. You’d better come back in to see me during the early afternoon. How about tomorrow? Do you have any classes?

Hey, hang on! John exclaimed. I’ve got a few priorities to establish here. I mean, what’s school, you know? I mean, look, I don’t want to get drafted and just go into any old thing. Hell, what if they decided to put me into the Navy, or even into the Marines? I mean, I’m not asking to chicken out, but I’m not gonna sit back and let them put me in for four years just to go to class one more time. I mean, they have drafted people into the Navy, haven’t they? I mean, that’s four years, you know?

Yes, yes, that has happened. But slow down, John, answered Witters, perhaps understanding Johnny’s concern. I can’t guarantee that you wouldn’t be drafted into the Navy. All I can guarantee is that if your test scores are good enough to qualify you for a particular MOS, and if there is an opening in a particular AIT, what we call Advanced Individual Training, then that’s the school you would attend to get specialized training in that MOS, and you would then stand a very good chance of filling the opening.

OK, so I’ll come in tomorrow, at whatever time you want. I mean, whenever you are going to be free, or do I make an appointment or what? I mean, I’ll come in the morning, even.

All right, John, I’ll tell you what, Witters said as he pushed back his chair with a sense of calm and composure. Why don’t you come in any time before 1200 hours, that’s noon. Or after 1300, that’s one in the afternoon. I’m here from 0800 hours until 1600. That’s four in the afternoon.

Johnny rose from his chair and, extending his hand to Witters, replied, OK, fine, yeah. Uh, listen, you’ve really taken a big load off my mind, Sergeant. I’ll be here tomorrow about nine o’clock. I can just forget about school for one day, OK?

Fine, John. I’ll have the test papers all ready to go at 0900 tomorrow.

They shook hands, and Johnny left with a happy, hopeful grin on his face.

He took the few tests the very next day. Relatively simple, they dealt with associative and multiple choice questions concerning aptitude, interests, and skills. The following Monday, Witters informed him that he had the aptitude to enter just about anything and everything he wanted to, with a few exceptions: diesel mechanics and track vehicle maintenance. Since Johnny didn’t want to be a mechanic, he didn’t mind that. He had never done any tinkering with the family car, other than helping change a tire or attach snow chains. He had only seen track vehicles in the movies, at museums, or at the construction site where the expressway had been built through his neighborhood. Witters told him that construction survey was the closest thing that an enlisted man could get to engineering, outside of being an ordinary construction worker type, so Johnny enlisted in the Army for a three-year period, and chose to report to the induction center one week after his last class of the semester.

2

INDUCTION

On a sunny, cool morning in late spring 1967, Johnny bid farewell to his family outside the induction center just south of the Chicago Loop. He somehow assumed that he would be the only person there but was surprised to find that he was far from being alone. There were several hundred other young men congregating inside a huge auditorium on the main floor. He even recognized a face or two belonging to former fellow students from his junior college. It seemed to him that the army was filling their quota from the Chicago area alone, but he would soon discover that his impression was quite wildly wrong.

As he found a seat on one of the gray steel folding chairs, he thought back to the first time he was in this building, almost two months ago, on the second floor, when he was among hundreds of others going through their first taste of the hurry-up-and-wait routine of being corralled, poked, or prodded by a seemingly unconcerned medical staff. He had been half clad, in underwear and socks, clutching papers and clothing. He had been pushed, pulled, and prodded by physicians and medical staff. In one door and out the next. Stand in one line for an hour and in another for only a few seconds. Waiting in tiny examination rooms for a checkup by someone who might have decided to take a smoke break, or being bunched up with a half dozen others for a quick glance by someone who seemed to be merely going through the motions or checking off applicable boxes on a questionnaire or some sort of form. It hadn’t taken long on that day of his pre-induction physical to learn to follow directions without asking any questions from the examiners.

Stick out your tongue. Say ‘Ah.’ Move the hair out of your eyes. Any allergies? Run in place. Bend over. Turn your head and cough. Arms over your head. Stand on one leg. Hold your head up. Follow my finger. Breathe out. Look this way. Put your hands down. Breathe in. Hold still. Bend over and hold your jewels.

Stretch your leg out. Does this hurt? Keep moving. Squat down. Ever have hemmies? Get back in line. Next!

Did you know you have flat feet? Do they hurt when you walk? Do you wear special shoes? Next!

Going to the doctor has never been like this, he had pondered as the curt commands to perform or comply continued for most of that day. In and out of lines, rooms, and chairs, following the person ahead through the building and finally out the door. At the end of the examinations, he had discovered that he had flat feet and a slight hernia condition but was otherwise fit for duty. Johnny knew he was underweight, hypertensive, and afflicted with the usual college fatigue brought on by late-night hours, but no one had seemed to notice or care much about that.

His daydream of the past was interrupted by an individual who came into the auditorium shouting for everyone to sit down. The shouter was dressed in uniform, sort of a green shade, with a patch on each sleeve. The patches were identical and appeared to be some sort of bird or eagle with a bunch of arrows in one claw and a tree in the other.

At ease! At ease! All right, let’s settle down, guys. I’m Specialist Dolan, and I’m here on behalf of the Eighty-Seventh Personnel Detachment to welcome you to the Chicago area induction center.

Perhaps it was Dolan’s slight stature, thin glasses, and youthful appearance that caused the room to produce a scattering of snickers. Perhaps it was the high-pitched nasal tone with which Dolan spoke that brought catcalls from a few in the room. Or perhaps there were those who, like Johnny, looked upon Dolan as a nonaggressive sort who might be found behind a typewriter or a sales counter, but not as a soldier in the army. Whatever the reason, the remainder of Dolan’s remarks were met with an occasional outburst of chuckling. The crowded room did pay attention since Dolan was the only person in the place who knew where the gathered young men were to go.

Most of you will be leaving here today, so you’d better listen up, Dolan continued. Those of you who have enlisted or have noticed that you have been drafted into the Army will be sworn in shortly. The rest of you are to remain here until you are called. With that, Dolan moved to a door, opened it, and said, Now, will all those who have not had their physical come forward and line up. Smoking is allowed in this room. I’ll be back in five. Dolan exited the room and led a file of a few men.

Sworn in? Johnny asked himself as panic set in. What is this guy talking about? I’ve already enlisted in the Army. What if they want me to take an oath to be in for four years or for the duration of the war? Heck, I don’t want any part of an oath I don’t read first. What is all this stuff anyway?

What the heck are they going to make me swear to do? Johnny muttered to himself, but loud enough to be heard.

Hey, don’t sweat it, man. That’s just the army way of talking. You already going in, ain’t you, man? The question came from a guy sitting two chairs to Johnny’s right.

Yeah, Johnny answered. I signed up for three years. You too?

Hell no, man. They snatched my ass in the draft. I ain’t doin’ no three. So yo, gimme a square, man. I need some drag.

Huh, pardon me? said Johnny.

A square, man. A smoke—you know, a cig. You dig?

Oh, yeah, a square, said Johnny, pleased with himself for picking up some new lingo, and pulled out an unopened pack of Kool Menthols from his shirt pocket and then began to peel the cellophane strip. He was accustomed to sharing or bumming smokes from his time spent in the student lounge at school. Any smoker was fair game to hit on or be hit upon to share or provide a cigarette, but he had never heard a cigarette being called a square. Johnny tapped at the pack in order to extend two of the unfiltered cigarettes and then proceeded to dig in his pocket for a book of matches. You going into the Army today too? he asked as he held the pack out to the other man, who proceeded to extract one cigarette and then tap it on the face of his watch.

Dig it. Hey, later, man. I gotta catch up with some homies I know. Keep it loose, ya hear? replied the other, who then made his way over to a small group across the aisle. As the guy was leaving, Johnny noticed that his luggage consisted of a brown paper shopping bag that appeared to hold very few items. He looked down at his own luggage—a weathered tan fiberboard suitcase with rusty clasps and split seams, loaded with several changes of clothing, shoes, and shaving items. That guy must not have a lot to take with him, thought Johnny. Maybe I’ve brought too much. I’ll bet that’s what it is. I’ve brought too much stuff, but how was I to know? The notice just said to be here today. He looked around, hoping that he was not the only one who over packed.

All right, you guys, listen up. At ease! At ease! Dolan was back after sorting out the men who had left with him a few minutes ago. Johnny noticed that the room hadn’t really thinned out at all, that more men were coming in from the room next door. "Now I want you guys to stay in this building, on this floor, until you are directed otherwise. You can go through this door and down the hall and up two floors to the cafeteria for lunch at 1130 hours, and then return here. But other than that, do not wander around and do not exit the building. Got that? We will begin calling names at 1300 hours, so when you hear your name called, you respond loud and clear and come forward for your orders."

After Dolan left, Johnny glanced at his watch. It was eleven fifteen. God, the time flew. I’ve been here since eight o’clock, he realized. Think I better head toward the cafeteria to grab me some lunch before the line gets too long. Picking up his suitcase, he headed for the door, joining other men who were already piling out as if they had just been released from school on graduation day. This was the most excitement Johnny had seen all day, and it was a welcome, familiar sentiment to share. He proceeded with the crowd up one flight of stairs until progress was halted by a booming voice from somewhere above in the stairwell. Someone was shouting to form a line and keep the noise down until the mess was open. Mess? Who made a mess? Johnny asked himself. Am I supposed to listen for them to open something?

Everyone shuffled into a line as best they could without pushing or shoving, sometimes crowding two or three to a step, unable to spread out since the line could move neither forward nor backward. The doors to the mess were not open, and the surge continued from the men behind.

Nothing we gotta do but wait for some lunch, said a voice nearby.

Yeah, hurry up and wait, said another.

The anticipation of a meal faded quickly, to join the mundane cadence of the previous hours.

The door ahead opened, promptly at eleven thirty. A voice called out, ordering the line to move, so everyone began to shuffle forward, one step at a time. As Johnny discovered, lunch was fair, if not somewhat ordinary. Thin, dry hamburgers; some french-fried potatoes; an assortment of beverages; Jell-O; potato chips; and other packaged snacks for sale at the end of the counter. Some were complaining about having to pay, but the cashier, a civilian employee, curtly said, You ain’t in the army yet, so pay up or move the hell out. Uncle Sam don’t give no freebies. Specialist, you best tell these boys, she yelled toward the soldier at the door.

Typical cafeteria food, Johnny said to himself. Not any better or any worse than high school food. He spent his wait in recollection of his high school lunchroom, where it was common to swipe a delicious hot butter cookie by placing it under a burger bun. He recalled the good old days—cutting classes, the fights, goofing off in gym class, his friends. He missed his closest pals, George and Bob—still at home, out of school by now but not drafted yet, and here he was. A slight tinge of jealousy pricked at him, but then he figured at least he didn’t have to worry about going in anymore. He felt as if a weight had been removed from his mind. He was in, and he was ahead of them. He had enlisted to get into the Construction Surveyor School, and his friends might get scooped into the infantry. I’ll be better off. He chuckled. Beat the system. Join and pick your own MOS.

But then he thought of his three-year hitch versus their possible two-year stint. Hell, they can be in and out before I get through, he realized. A brief panic snatched at him. I never looked at it like that, he murmured. Yeah, but still they’d have to fight in the war, and I’d be OK. The heck with that Hit the beach stuff. I’m going to learn something and come out ready to go back to school and become an engineer, and build roads and stuff. It was just what he had wanted to be ever since learning about the abilities of Caesar’s legionaries, which he translated from the Latin during his days in the seminary, when he believed that he wanted to be a priest.

After lunch, Johnny returned to the auditorium. Some of the chairs had been pushed together and were occupied by the curled bodies of cat nappers. A few card games were in progress. A small gathering was pitching pennies against a wall. Johnny pulled out a paperback novel from his suitcase and settled down on a folding chair. He read for the remainder of the afternoon, breaking from time to time as his mind wandered and he reminisced about his job in the supermarket back home. He thought of helping in the butcher shop, of eating slices of ham and cheese, of working in the produce department, eating loose grapes. He recalled fishing for perch with his dad in Belmont Harbor. Every so often, a specialist would enter the room, yell At ease!, and call out some names; but John’s did not get called out until a little after four o’clock. When he heard his name called, he did as those before him had done—he moved to the front of the room, stood near a green line on the floor, and listened. These are your orders, a soldier was saying as he passed out mimeographed sheets of paper. Johnny’s eyes rolled down the lines of names until he found his. He shuffled along with the others, following the green line as directed, and tried to read the block lettering. He saw his name, followed by PVT E-1, then the letters RA with a series of numbers, then ROSTER 17 LINE 42.

The green line led into another large room, similar in size to the one he had just left, except for the occupants, a few scattered tables, and benches. The room resembled an assembly hall, but without a high ceiling, females, and school banners. Looking forward, Johnny was jolted at first by the crowd of men ahead of him. It seemed as though there were twice the number ahead of him than had been in the auditorium this morning. Some were asleep on benches, on tables, chairs, and even on the floor. He noted a string overhead, extending from one side of the room to the other. This supported four placards bearing the same message:

DO NOT LEAVE THIS ROOM

WHEN ROSTER NUMBER IS CALLED

PROCEED TO DOOR ON LEFT

Johnny saw a short line of men entering and leaving a washroom. Other than that, no one was leaving the room, and in particular, no one was entering or leaving the door on his left. At shortly after six that evening, things began to happen. The night shift must have come on duty, because a specialist entered the room and called out, Roster numbers 15 through 65, when I call your number, step to the door. As the number 42 was called, Johnny took up his suitcase and proceeded with several other men through the door. When some fifty men had assembled in the next room, a specialist called the roll, and an officer of some sort rose from a desk at the front of the room, asked that all raise their right hand and repeat after him. Johnny could not hear all of the oath, but he heard words such as God, country, defend, and life. But the bulk of the words were lost in the mumble of the administrating officer and those responding around him. It seemed to be a most uninspiring oath, and certainly one that could not carry much weight if he couldn’t hear it; but before he knew it, the others in the room were putting their hands down. The officer told them to be proud and congratulate each other, because, he said, You are now members of the finest fighting force in the world.

Johnny clearly heard that part, and a chill ran up his spine as he asked himself, What happened? How’d I get into a fighting force? My orders don’t say infantry. What’s going on here? What did that guy Witters put me in for? He quickly scanned the papers, searching for some hint, some clue as to his destination, his assignment. He searched for the words construction or survey or school. Why didn’t the orders tell where he was going? A jumble of letters at the top of the page caught his eye: USARREPLCENFLEOWDMO.

You men will be leaving here very shortly, going by train to Missouri, then to Fort Leonard Wood, the officer announced. You will be able to eat and sleep on board the train. I must caution you to stay together between here and the train station. Any AWOLs—that’s absent without leave—will be subject to arrest and prosecution for desertion. You belong to Uncle Sam, gentlemen. You are now recruits and will soon undergo your basic training to become soldiers. Good luck to all of you. You are hereby ordered to follow this specialist to Union Station. Remember, keep together and do not wander around at Union Station. Your train leaves shortly, and you do not want to miss it, or you will be considered AWOL and subject to arrest. With that, the officer turned and left the room; and within a minute, the specialist announced that they were to gather their gear and follow him.

Now why did I hear all of that and not the oath? Johnny thought. What a gyp. I don’t even know what I swore to do. And a train? Never been on a train. Just the Chicago L. Do they serve food? Where exactly are we going?

3

TRANSIT

The Illinois Central train bound for St. Louis left Chicago at 7:20 p.m. Johnny listened to a dull narrative given by another passenger concerning the surrounding areas and towns through which they would pass. He heard about Shorewood and Dwight before the steady rocking and monotonous motion of the train lulled him to sleep. The trip became an overnight journey due to the fact that their passenger car was placed on a siding and coupled with other cars before arriving at the St. Louis station. When he awoke, Johnny was hungry, but he heard the porter announce that they were to prepare to deboard. The car emptied, and the recruits followed someone into the station. Once inside, the other members of his roster appeared to be gathered by a specialist in a dress uniform much like the one that Witters had worn. Johnny hurriedly purchased a bag of potato chips and a postcard showing the famed St. Louis arch from a vendor before he followed the others outside to a line of yellow school buses. Following the specialist’s announcement to listen up for one’s name and bus number assignment, he waited to hear his name called and hopped onto the identified number 4 bus. When the vehicle departed, following a similar one ahead of it, he had a chance to see the Arch up close as the column of buses moved along the Mississippi River and headed out to a main highway.

Settle down now, boys. We got ’bout a six-hour drive to git on down to Leonard Wood. We be stoppin’ just outside hereabouts fer some’n to eat, said the driver. There ain’t no john on this here bus. No reachin’ or pukin’ out the winder, and don’t be startin’ no fights, or I gots to radio the state police. All I gots to do is to follow the bus up front of me and deliver you down there, and that’s it. Can’t say as I like to see none of you young ’uns go, but they’s none I can do fer it.

As hunger made Johnny more fidgety, the steady motion of the bus helped him to settle down, and he watched the scenery go by. Endless farm fields and some small towns adjacent to the highway, but still no stop for food or a much-needed bathroom break, until finally someone ventured forward a bit to ask the driver about stopping. The query was echoed by several other voices until the driver called back, Cain’t do so tills the bus up front stops. Within the next twenty minutes or so, the bus slowed as it followed the one ahead onto an exit ramp and into a gravel parking lot and then stopped. Before opening the door, he turned in his seat and said, Now, Uncle Sam gave me this here voucher so’s you can get you some food. As I sees it, he lets you git a watchacall ‘ontray,’ but you gots to pay fer anythin’ else ’ceptin yer sodey pop. Ain’t gotta be no rushin’ and hurryin’ ’cuz from here on in, we gots to follow them other buses. We leave when it ’pears we is all through. You kin bring back sodey pop an’ such if you wants, but remember—no pukin’ out the fuckin’ winder.

Having missed supper on the train, Johnny was a bit famished. To him, the food was just about the best he had ever tasted. He filled his plate with the roast pork entrée, along with something called fritters and a portion of a cob of corn. After eating and savoring a second cup of coffee, he bought a few stamps together with a few postcards showing someplace called the Ozarks and mailed them home, together with the Arch postcard. He was quite tempted to purchase a box of Stuckey’s pecans, after repeatedly seeing roadside signs and billboards proclaiming the delights to be had with just one delectable pecan; but his dwindling pocket money ruled against it, so he passed up on the opportunity.

When the bus was back on the road the driver was in better spirits, or rather, the better spirits were possibly in him, as Johnny noticed a brown paper bag being passed among a couple of the recruits at the front of the bus and making its way to the driver once every few rounds. Also, there were several more bottles being tipped up, but fortunately, no more went to the driver after a near mishap with the rear end of the bus ahead just before the rest area stop.

Johnny had been able to fall asleep after the stop and was startled awake by the driver shouting Here! Looking out the windows, all that one could see were trees lining both sides of the road, with slightly rolling hills in every direction. The segment of roadway that they were on was not unlike any other multilane country highway, and it did not appear to be a military installation, based on the cars and buses zipping along on their left side and across the road in the opposite direction. The driver had stopped next to a large sign proclaiming a welcome to the fort and identifying this as the headquarters of the United States Army Basic Training. As the bus slowly followed the one ahead, Johnny could see no tanks, no marching troops, not a gun or a uniform in any direction. The driver stopped in a blacktop parking area parallel with the bus next to his, but at a slight angle to the left, leaving just enough space for the passengers from the bus on the left to get out, while the next bus pulled in alongside on the right. A plain two-story red-brick building was opposite the buses. Still no sign of anything military, until a line of soldiers, wearing green uniforms similar to the one that Specialist Dolan was wearing, exited the building, and, beginning on the left side, each one proceeded to a bus and collected a manila envelope from the drivers. Johnny’s driver passed his envelope to the soldier and then told his passengers to gather their luggage, wished them good luck, and told them to get off the bus and stay in front until they were told what to do next. Johnny felt a momentary desire to stay on the bus—a single impulse directed at hiding or running or calling it quits. He felt that the driver could perhaps help him since he hadn’t taken the oath. They’d understand, wouldn’t they?

4

FIRST FORMATIONS

The soldier in front of Johnny’s bus took out the contents of the manila envelope and placed the sheets of paper on the clipboard he carried. Signed, sealed, and delivered, like so much baggage, was the thought that ran through Johnny’s mind. If we could have taken that envelope from the driver, they’d never have missed us. God, what a wasted opportunity we never knew we had.

Fall in! That means line up, give me eight across, and listen up for roll call, said the soldier, a sergeant, as he turned over the first page on his clipboard and began reading names. Sound off when I say your name!

The recruits tried their best to count, maneuver, and form the requested eight men in front of the sergeant, who checked his list as the recruits responded with Yo!, Here!, Present! or corrections to the sergeant’s pronunciation. There was a smart-ass who yelled Ad Sum! back at him, but he gave no reaction, probably because he had heard it all before; and as long as his list was completed, he could care less how each had responded.

The sergeant then told the recruits to gather up their luggage, formed them into some semblance of order, and told them to follow him to the reception station for billeting. There was to be no talking, and no breaking ranks, whatever that meant. He led them along at an easy pace off the parking area, and they followed in silence, gawking and staring at the simple surroundings and noting in particular the lack of large groups of soldiers. Another feature they began to notice was the red clay surface upon which they were walking. It appeared to be solid, yet every step caused a light puff of red dust to rise up. Each puff remained suspended a mere two or three inches in the air, and then spread over their shoes as well as their pant legs. The sergeant led them to another two-story red-brick building. The area in front of the building had alphabets on signposts at regular intervals. Johnny’s group was stopped at the letter D, where the sergeant told them to form ranks again and to place their belongings on the ground at their left side. There were other recruits at the lettered signs both left and right of Johnny’s group. A specialist came out of the building carrying a stack of manila envelopes. He passed a stack to each of the sergeants, who in turn passed the stack to the first recruit on his left side. He said to take the one with your name on it and pass the stack on to the next man. The stack was passed down the front rank and then on to each rank until there was one envelope for each recruit. While the stack was being passed, the sergeant told them that this was to be their 201 file, and they should be ready to place their orders in their 201, to keep their 201 with them at all times unless otherwise directed. There was a general commotion as recruits dug in their luggage or bags or pockets for their orders. The sergeant then told them to find and memorize their serial number, which appeared next to their name on their orders, because they would need it from then on. Once all had found their orders and taken a few minutes to try to memorize the eight digits, the sergeant then told them to insert their orders into their 201’s, hold the file in their left hands, and form a single file. Rank by rank he led them into the building following the C group.

The first realization that the army operated on a continuous timeframe hit the recruits later that day as they proceeded in single file through one door and out the next. Room after room, they were met at each stop by someone asking for their name and serial number. Most of the recruits had to take another look at their orders. They would be asked various questions, and they would sit and listen to someone telling them how to fill out forms, view slides, or pay attention to a short lecture on what they were going to be doing for the next few days. Nearly all the stops required the use of one’s serial number, so while some continued to have to look at their orders, others appeared to have no problem rattling theirs off. Johnny was one of the latter, since he did not want to screw up, as most of the personnel warned the recruits against making this mistake at each stop.

There was a brief pause in the routine as they were led out the door and down the street for supper in an adjacent building—a mess hall, which came as a surprise to all but those at the head of the line. When they entered, a soldier clicked a counting device as each man came in, and they were told to take what they wanted, but to eat what they took and to sit in the area of tables as indicated by the sergeant who was leading them. By paying attention to those ahead, Johnny saw that each person was to take a segmented metal tray from a stack, then pass along a series of steam tables, holding their trays out to accept or decline whatever the soldier behind the steam table was serving. There was fried chicken, sliced ham, and some sort of grayish-brown mystery meat sitting in a liquid that seemed to have colored lines in it. Corn and a greenish vegetable were next, then mashed potatoes, gravy, followed by a platter of white and wheat bread, butter, jars of honey, and bottles of ketchup and hot sauce. It came as a surprise that one could have as much as one wanted, or had to learn to pull back one’s tray, since the serving soldier would continue to spoon or fork or ladle whatever they had unless the tray was moved.

At the end of the line, there were holders for metal utensils. Looking around to find the beverages, Johnny saw stacks of plastic cups next to a table of pitchers with some red and yellow liquid on one side, and two rectangular metal dispensers with a thin white hose from which one could get white or chocolate milk. There was also a table with white coffee mugs and several coffeepots. He saw where the person ahead of him was going, so he followed him to the section of tables with the letter D and placed his tray down. On the table sat a napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, and metal ashtrays. As he was returning with a cup of chocolate milk, he heard the sergeant saying, Eat up. No lollygagging. Return your trays and things to the cleaning station over there. He nodded toward the far end of the room. The latrine is out that door—another nod—but return here and wait for me. The sergeant then walked over to the coffeepots, took two mugs, filled them, and then went to a separate table to join some other soldiers. They were conversing, eating, and casually sipping from mugs of coffee.

After Johnny had finished his meal, he took the tray to the cleaning station, where he saw directions as to what to do with the remnants; deposited them, the cup, and his utensils accordingly; then returned to the table. So what the heck is ‘lollygagging’? he asked aloud.

It’s what you are doing right now, came a reply from across the table. My cousin told me. He been in since last month, so shut up or that Sarge is gonna be all over us.

All talking ceased as the rest of the recruits finished their meals. The sergeant came to the table and yelled out Unass those seats! Grab your files and follow me! Whereupon everyone got up, scrambled to push in their chairs, and then headed for the door.

Upon emerging from the mess hall, the recruits were met with another surprise—rain. A downpour of any amount does not halt the Army’s activities, so, clutching their 201 files, they began to bunch up behind the sergeant, who was quickly donning a green poncho. He turned and told them to form a single file, and once they were in a single file, he led them back into the red-brick building. The sergeant stopped to remove his poncho and his hat, and they were led through another seemingly endless procession of lectures, slides, and forms to complete. Finally, the line of recruits snaked by an opening in the wall, a window with two soldiers inside. Each recruit was handed a pillow and a folded scratchy brown wool blanket. The sergeant, again covered by his poncho, then led them out into the rain to gather their luggage. This time there were plenty of groans and gripes as they gathered their belongings from the red clay mud. They proceeded to follow him through the puddles to a dark two-story barracks building. The sergeant stepped up onto the entranceway under an awning, told the recruits, Fall in, and entered the building to switch on the lights. He produced a clipboard from beneath his poncho and yelled, At ease! The sooner you quit yer lollygagging, the sooner you get inside. Listen up! As I call your name, sound off and come inside, first floor only.

Johnny was in the first rank, and his name was called after about a dozen other recruits. He stepped past the sergeant and went into the barracks.

The dim illumination provided by four naked lightbulbs in sockets hanging from the ceiling revealed a room with a center aisle and a row of green steel bunk bed springs, each having a thin striped mattress rolled up at the far end on each side. A green coffee can was attached to the foot of each bunk bed. He walked about halfway down the center aisle and chose a bottom bed on his right side. Placing his suitcase on the floor, he put the pillow and the blanket on the mattress roll, pulled out his orders, and sat on the springs at the foot of the bed. He read and reread his name, rank, and serial number, trying to commit the eight digits to memory so that he wouldn’t have to pull out his orders from the wet manila envelope the next time that the number was required. He started to have the shivers as his wet clothing cooled and stuck to his body. The seemingly endless day should have made him tired, but his nerves and his eagerness to conform and to avoid bringing attention to himself had kept him alert.

5

LIGHTS-OUT

All right! At ease! Listen up! the sergeant said as the last of the recruits in the group entered. Everyone sleeps down here. No one will go upstairs, and no one will leave the barracks. The latrine is behind me for your shit, shower, and shave. Use the cans at the end of your bunk to put out your smokes. You will take turns at standing what we call fire watch while you are here. The watch rotates from bottom bunk to top bunk. You will be wakened, you will get dressed, and you will stay awake, on your feet, walking up and down this aisle until your shift on watch is over. Then you will wake the man in the bunk next to you, being sure that he is on his feet. You will ask him his name and tell him what time it is and tell him that it is his turn, and you will remain at his bunk until he is on his feet and dressed before you hit your rack. There will be no smoking while you are on fire watch. You will not loiter in the latrine. You will not leave the barracks. For tonight, each shift on watch will be one half-hour, starting with you. He pointed to the recruit in the bunk nearest the door, on the other side of the aisle from Johnny. You will use my wristwatch to keep time. My wristwatch will be returned to me at reveille tomorrow. Is that understood?

Yeah!

Yes!

"OK!

Only a few of the recruits managed to answer; they were too tired to ask any questions, and not really caring too much for the idea of interrupted sleep but not feeling capable of arguing.

The sergeant turned to the recruit whom he had selected and gave him some instructions. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wristwatch with a broken band. He handed the watch to the recruit and then walked the few steps to the entryway of the latrine and turned on the lights inside. I suggest you hit the rack, most riki-tik, he said and went up the stairs opposite the entrance door. They heard a door open and close, followed in a few seconds by the muffled sounds of country western music.

Chatter and grumbling immediately ensued.

Does anyone have any dry smokes? one person asked as a few of the others lit their cigarettes.

Another asked You know what time it is? It’s ten thirty! Jeez, I was convinced we’d never get done. I’m soaked, and all my shit is wet. To emphasize, he opened his travel bag and turned it upside down. A stream of water drizzled out, followed by the soggy contents, which plopped onto the floor and lay in a shapeless mass, which was soon surrounded by a rust-colored puddle.

Picking up his suitcase and laying it on the empty upper bunk, Johnny opened it to find his clothing and other belongings pasted to the bottom half. A pencil, a writing pad, a can of shaving cream, a packet of double-edged razor blades, his razor in a small plastic box, his soap, and two handkerchiefs were matted together behind the divider in the upper half. All my clothes, my towels, my socks—everything! I gotta get something dried before tomorrow, or else I got nothing to wear, he said aloud.

Hey, yo! Ain’t no big deal. You’s in the same boat as most of the rest of us. I ain’t got me no other clothes but what’s I’m wearing, said the recruit in the next bunk. Just lay yer shit out a bit, and maybe it’s gonna dry out some. Hey, gimme a cig if you got any ones is dry.

Johnny pulled the pack from his shirt pocket and found that some were damp, but he was able to find a dry one for each of them. His matches were a ruin, so he had to bum a light from another recruit and wound up sharing cigarettes with a couple more whose packs were soaked. They didn’t seem to mind trying to light and smoke damp cigarettes. His drumsticks were hickory and unfazed by the dampness.

Hey! Ain’t no stalls in the shitter and no curtains in the shower? No tubs neither! came a voice from the latrine. Several of the recruits crowded around the entry while one guy came behind them and said, Ain’t no biggie, man. Just so’s there’s hot water, so lemme on in there. I need a nice, long soaking. And he passed through the crowd, wearing just his boxer shorts, towel draped over one shoulder and carrying his soap in a little white box.

Whoa, look at you all, standing in the way, will ya? said one to the recruits blocking the entry. Gotta get my ass in there ’fore somebody uses up all the hot water, he added. His remarks brought a bit of laughter into the barracks, and the least self-conscious began to shed clothing while others rummaged through luggage and bags to get what they needed. For some, the idea of being naked in front of a bunch of guys was no big deal, and they went about their preparations for a shower. Others merely took off their wet outer garments, unrolled the mattress, unfolded the blanket, and climbed into bed.

OK, hey guys, said the recruit whom the sergeant had designated to stand first watch. "The sergeant said my time started when he went upstairs, and he told me to tell the next guy to say it’s lights out, so I’m