O.D.

By R. W. Hammontree

The memoir of one pacifist's "dance" with the United States Army in the era of Viet Nam and Woodstock. Being a patriot, he was not one to run off to Canada to escape the draft, but still his determination to resist taking anyone's life put him through more than he truly bargained for in the US military. From basic training to advanced individual training, his aversion to violence and spilling anyone else's blood, as is revealed in this remembrance, led to placing his own life in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645840466

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Arrival

Fort Ord, California

October 1969

Once we arrived at Ord later that evening and all were accounted for, we were ushered into a mess hall and fed before lights out. We were told to get some rest because zero week started the next morning. I’d never heard the term before but was soon informed that that was the week where we learned how to begin learning how to be a soldier, before we went up the hill to start basic training proper. I didn’t sleep much that night, and the shouldering and open hostilities from the others didn’t help matters, either.

The next morning, we were awakened for the first time by reveille, then lined up outside for roll call. We had our first army breakfast in the mess hall, then lined up again outside. Zero week began with haircuts for everyone that needed one. The smiles on the faces all around us spoke volumes to Ed and me. The barber who attended me surprised me when he asked how I’d like mine cut. Feeling a little joyful for his concern about my personal choice in the matter, I told him I knew he had to cut the sides and back of it, but I asked if he could leave some length on the top, so I had something to comb back.

He said, Sure, ready? He started low in the back then buzzed it all the way to my forehead. The hair of a reverse mohawk dropped into my lap. This, I learned, is army barber humor.

I schlepped outside and looked around to find Ed. I could not recognize him amid the sea of buzzed heads—until he put on his John Lennon-style wire-rim eyeglasses. While the others were smiling at us with smugness on their faces at our humiliation, we both had to break a smile at each other as well.

Our next move was to the quartermaster to get all our army clothes and regulation gear. It was kind of like a Bizzaro Christmas morning. We got all these new things to make us begin to look like we belonged there. I thought it was kind of cool in an odd way, though I wouldn’t have admitted it then. Some of the group looked as though this was the only Christmas they had ever seen, judging by the tattered civilian clothes worn by some of our cadre. Kind of sad really, but you couldn’t read a trace of it on any of their stoic faces. We all sought to look as nonchalant, unaffected, and tough as we could.

We were then led to our temporary barracks, so we could be shown by our tour guide corporal how the army expected us to arrange and store our gear. We literally had to place everything in our foot lockers identically the same as everyone else’s. There is always the right way, the wrong way, and the army way for everything done, including how to make our bunks. It had to have hospital corners and blankets pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter off it. They also gave us storage bags for our civvies or civilian clothes, which would be given back to us after basic training was completed.

The next event was learning how to march, turn, and stop like a soldier. We marched in place until we got the hang of it; that left-right-left stuff seemed hard for some of the recruits, but we all caught on eventually. We learned how to salute an officer and respond to an NCO. We also learned that an NCO was a noncommissioned officer—sergeants and corporals—and the difference between how you addressed them. You don’t say, Sir, to an NCO. They’d say, I work for a living! You say, Sir, to officers and salute them until they return the salute or pass you by. Like I said, there is an army way for everything one did, including using the latrine (bathroom), even how to take a two-minute shower! That was fortunate, because all they gave us was a washcloth and a face towel for cleansing and drying oneself, then demonstrated (fully clothed, thank God) how to shower army style.

You started at your head and washed with the cloth down to your feet, then you dried off starting with the wash cloth. You removed most of the water with the wash cloth starting at your head, then working your way down to your feet, wringing out the cloth as needed. Then the remaining moisture left by the damp cloth was easy to finish drying off with the hand towel. We were also given our razors and razor blades, soap and soap containers, etc. Everything to keep you looking soldier like! We were also taught the soldiers’ creed and especially the Army Core values.

Informed on the army way to use the toilet or urinal, I noticed that there were no stalls, just rows of toilets and urinals. So, my first task was to convince my shy bladder that there was no other way to take care of business here in the armed forces. We also endured more army humor about using the urinal; if you shook it more than twice after you were finished, you could be court marshalled for masturbating. Ha. Ha. Ha.

And on it went for the rest of zero week…

Chapter 2

The Hill

After zero week concluded, we were loaded on a truck, a flatbed with wooden sides and long benches front to back, and were told to slide tight, butts to balls , with duffle bags at our sides. The Hill was where basic training really started. When the truck stopped at our company (Company C), we were immediately screamed at by some of the most terrifying faces I had ever encountered up to that point in my life. Large scary men with Smokey the Bear hats began ordering us to get our sorry asses off the goddamned truck! If you were not hustling fast enough, you were literally thrown off that truck! The terrified recruits were scrambling to get off quickly enough to escape the wrath of any of these behemoths. I made it off fast enough to not get thrown off, and through the terror of it all, I saw that Ed did as well.

We were told to fall in and you’d better believe we did as best as we knew how. The drill sergeants had sharks’ eyes, dead looking, blood-thirsty eyes that struck terror into the hearts of every one of us. We couldn’t do anything right, as far as I could tell. They screamed that we were the worst looking piles of shit they had ever seen, and it was going to be their pleasure to see how many of us would be broken and spit back out only to go through basic training, all over again! That was the worst, potentially suicidal, thought-provoking, possibility any of us could have imagined at that moment.

Then, an eerie quiet settled upon us; the drill sergeants stopped screaming as another Smoky the Bear hat walked toward us. It was the head drill sergeant, Sergeant Rucker, a black man, two shades darker than midnight. He strode up and settled front and center of us all. He had that hat tilted down so that all you could see underneath of it were those eyes. If he looked at you, you were certain you were about to catch the wrath of God!

He spoke: "Some of you will not make it through this training. If you do not, you’d better pray to God that you do not come back to my company again! Charlie Company is the number one company at Fort Ord, and I will not accept anything less than perfection! Do you understand?"

Several of us said, Yes, Drill Sergeant. (As we were instructed in zero week.)

"I did not hear you!"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

"Maybe I am becoming deaf. I said, do you understand?"

Yes, Drill Sergeant!

"Now that’s the way I want you to respond! You will jump when you are told to, and you will ask, ‘How high?’ Do you understand me?"

Yes, Drill Sergeant!

Satisfied, he said, You will now be assigned to your platoons. Listen up!

As our names were called and platoons were assigned, I took some minor comfort that Ed and I were both assigned to second platoon, though Ed was in a shared room with a recruit named Turner, and I was in the platoon bay proper. Our drill sergeant, Sergeant Ramirez, almost seemed a bit mellow compared to the others, though the competition between the other platoon’s drill sergeants and ours was immediately clear. We were constantly reminded that their honor was at stake, and none of them would accept anything less than perfection.

After we were assigned our bunks and stowed our gear in our standing and foot lockers the army way, we were called to attention by our drill sergeant. After he called, At ease, we learned that Company C was to be used as a test company to determine if basic training could be shortened from eight weeks to six. We were informed that this was an honor, and that the company’s staff would be taking it very seriously.

Initially, we bought that it was quite an honor and did our best to please the NCOs and officers even more than what I would have thought was usual. We would be put through the final weeks’ tests from the first week on through the eighth week. I soon soberly realized the real reason it was being tested, was to provide cannon fodder more quickly for the frontlines in Viet Nam, though I didn’t share my revelation with anyone but Ed. (FYI: As of this writing, basic training has been extended to nine weeks.)

The next morning, at 5:00 am, we had breakfast mess and then were taken to the test areas to begin our first final test ordeal. The tests included proficiency in: the low crawl; hand over hand; rope climb. Also, obstacle course running: net climb; log balance walks; running in full gear; PT (physical training) exercises: squat thrusts; pushups; jumping jacks; sit-ups, etc. Plus, firing range accuracy (marksmanship), and on and on.

When we returned to our platoon bay after dinner mess, any thought of going to bed or resting was immediately dashed as we were told a full inspection of our platoon bay would be at 4:00 am. So we were advised to place blankets on the windows to hide our nocturnal cleaning and work away waxing and buffing the painted concrete floors and squaring away our lockers. We cleaned the latrine on top of cleaning and squaring away our personal items, as well as the hallway to our platoon. We polished and spit-shined our combat boots as well as anything made of brass. We were awakened by bugle reveille at five, not four. This was, I gathered, one more way to make sure you were always prepared, like a good Boy Scout.

We ran down to the front of company grounds and answered the call to fall in and come to attention, lining up in our respective platoons. I’m sure most of us, like me, were waiting to be dismissed to breakfast mess. There would be more waiting, we learned, because the first thing we did was double time it to the PT field. We then ran in a large oval for two miles. I must state at this point that I was not, nor ever had been, a runner. Even in high school, I couldn’t even run one hundred yards without my side feeling like someone was shoving a knife in it. So, after I ran until my side was killing me, I started to walk. Big mistake.

A particularly large DI, Sergeant Wade, got in my face and motivated me. It’s surprising how a screaming scary guy with veins bulging out of his head can make a person quickly get over that side-pain problem. We ran the full two miles before we were directed back for breakfast. This would be a daily routine for the entire eight weeks. The beach range, where we practiced marksmanship, was seven miles, and we had to run most of the way there. Eventually, we would be running nearly the entire distance in full gear: helmet, ammo belt and canteen, combat boots, and an M-14 rifle.

One of the recruits in first platoon, Morgan, was worse at running than me. On that first morning run, he walked more than I did. On our way back from the beach range that first week, Morgan ended up walking most of the way. When the rest of us got back to the barracks, we were all made to do pushups until Morgan finally got there. He was not a popular guy.

One of the drill sergeants spoke before we were dismissed, Now, just because this recruit made you do all of those extra pushups, doesn’t mean you should give him a blanket party! Blank looks on everyone’s faces indicated none of us had ever heard the term before.

He continued, Oh, you don’t know what that is? That’s when some fuck-up is in their bunk and two guys throw a blanket across them to hold them down, while others wrap up their soap bars in their towels and beat the shit out of them. He looked around, I hope I don’t hear anything about something like that!

Subtle message received loud and clear!

The following morning, Private Morgan was not present at roll call. No one had seen him in the bay or latrine all morning. Go figure.

After our morning run and breakfast mess, we ran to