Cheerful Obedience

By Patrick McLaughlin

Navigating the stormy seas of the 1960s wasn't easy, especially if Vietnam was on your horizon.

Ignoring his 2-S selective service deferment, Conor Patrick McKall volunteers for the draft, and Uncle Sam promptly deposits him in the Big Green Machine.

Six months later McKall is walking point in jungles, rice paddies, and rubber plantations. In nine short months, he's made an infantry squad leader responsible for a dozen other grunts. In the "boonies," life is lived one day at a time.

Joining McKall's squad is Jack "Red" Sheridan whose near-death encounter with a black panther presents challenges to his credibility from other members of Lima Platoon. When McKall stands with Sheridan, an unbreakable bond develops. They meet Red Cross Donut Dollies and together experience the infamous Black Virgin Mountain where the good guys control the top and the bad guys the rest.

Escaping Vietnam for a handful of days on R&R in Sydney, Conor experiences Aussie hospitality and the attention of a green-eyed beauty who offers him a chance to escape the war. Loyal to his oath and to his men, Sergeant McKall barely has time to supplant the fading scent of Chanel before he and his squad must face their determined and deadly adversaries. The arbitrary gauntlet of Vietnam offers no guarantees.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350901641

Book preview

BK90077549.jpg

First Edition 2023

Copyright 2023 Patrick M. McLaughlin

All Rights Reserved

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-163-4

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-164-1

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

PMMcLaughlin.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Christine

Chapter 1

29 OCT 1967

(Near the Cambodian Border)

If any day is a good day to die this must be one. The NVA gunner watches and calculates as the enemy come into focus. He turns to the three men at his position. They are coming. Armed with AK-47s, RPGs, and Claymores, the others nod. Down the irrigation ditch to the gunner’s right and left other men are alerted to the approaching enemy. The gunner rejoices that the enemy is walking into the shorter section of the L-shaped ambush—the section manned by his platoon. The rest of the reinforced company, elements of the 165th NVA Regiment, held positions occupying the longer section of the ambush. The veterans of the 165th want revenge.

The gunner is a two-year veteran of the fighting: initially up north out of Laos and now Cambodia. He has killed before and will kill today. He and his machine gun are one. Many of the comrades to his right and left are less experienced, largely unproven, but eager to fight. We shall soon know, thinks the gunner.

He does not fear the enemy but respects their tenacity. He must strike first by surprise and take out the nearest man. Once the first man goes down, the enemy is briefly paralyzed. And it is in that short window of time that his gun will impose its will on the point element. The Claymores positioned in the rubber trees will punish the foolish men who come to aid their fallencomrades. The Americans’ predictability will be their doom.

Once the commander fixes the ambush positions, the gunner spoons out an indentation running out from the ditch deep enough to conceal the machine gun’s bipods. The muzzle hovers just above the ground, making it hard for the enemy to spot until they are well within the kill zone. When I fire, stand and look for the closest enemy, the gunner instructs the three soldiers in his gun crew, and kill him. Look then for the next one and kill him.

The point element continues its slow approach down the rows of rubber trees. The soldiers of the 165th show discipline as they await the signal to spring the ambush. The 165th had suffered significant casualties three months earlier in a fierce battle somewhere between Quan Loi and An Loc against elements of the enemy division they are again facing. The replacements are a mix of seasoned and green soldiers, and everyone knew the stories. Some of the junior officers are commanding for the first time.

The gunner wonders about the enemy’s battle experience. How experienced are the men near the point, the squad leader, and the platoon and company leaders? The gunner knows that the battle will be lost if the enemy reach the irrigation ditches. The regimental commander directed the ambush to spring from the irrigation ditches rather than the jungle line, which the gunner favored, eighty meters to the rear. This directive would trap the gunner’s platoon, so their lives will depend on stopping the enemy short of the ditches. He knew the only way to accomplish this would be to inflict carnage upon the point element, causing the enemy to retreat and regroup.

Soldiers to the left and right of the gunner wait anxiously for him to spring the ambush. The other platoons also wait, some of the men regretful, others joyful that the enemy is moving toward the short side of the L-shaped ambush. Once sprung, they will deliver maximum firepower to the enemy’s flank thereby reducing the options available in counter-attacking their comrades. A surprise strike with overwhelming firepower against the enemy’s flank will inflict heavy losses.

While the enemy is disoriented by the ambush the NVA infantry will move forward to close ranks. The 165th had learned this lesson the hard way. They understand that when the mortars, artillery, and gunships arrive, the closer the Americans are, the better their chances of survival.

The gunner locks on to the man moving down the rubber tree row that feeds directly to his waiting gun. The gunner observes men coming down rubber tree rows to the left and right of the one in his gunsight. He looks for the soldier carrying what the enemy calls the M-60 machine gun and spots him three rows to the gunner’s left. Once he strikes down the point man, he will take out his counterpart: the American gunner. This settled, he focuses solely on the approaching enemy soldier. The soldier is armed with the M-14 and not the black rifle that most carry. The seasoned fighters of the 165th respect the M-14, considering it equal to the AK-47, and superior to the black rifles the Americans call the M-16. He can see that other soldiers near the point element carry M-14s, and the gunner notes this as unusual. Focus.

The three NVA soldiers watch the gunner’s movements as he lifts his left hand to the top of the gun, right index finger to the trigger, and cocks his head as he sights down the barrel of the Chinese-made mankiller. Today they will kill their first Americans. Soldiers up and down the ditch hold their collective breath as they ponder the seconds before the gunner unleashes the ambush.

The soldier in the gunsight has not spotted the gunner in the ditch less than fifteen meters to his front and closing when a shout comes from the gunner’s left front. The soldier in the gunsight turns to his right and calls out. This elicits a quick response, then the soldier on point turns back and zeroes in on the ditch to his front. The gunner makes sure not to strike the careless enemy soldier down before he detected the ambush. I want the American to know that he is a dead man.

Shock grips the American’s face as the combatants’ eyes lock. This pleases the gunner. This man comprehends that he is about to die! Pridefully, the gunner allows himself the mental snapshot of sitting one day with his sons and grandsons as he regales them with tales of his heroics.

The gunner lifts his head above the machine gun, offers a sinister smile, and squeezes the trigger. The gun’s automatic burst shatters the stifling stillness of this tropical afternoon.

Chapter 2

July 1966,

Lakewood, Ohio

The letter he expects arrives amidst junk mail and bills addressed to his parents. He takes a deep breath and opens the letter. The letter, dated July 6th, begins:

Selective Service System

ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION

The President of the United States,

To: Conor Patrick McKall

Selective Service No. 45 51 75 009

Greetings:

You are ordered to report for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States, and to report at 1370 Ontario Street, Cleveland, Ohio on July 22, 1966, at 6:30 AM for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station.

The nineteen-year-old scans the Important Notice and his attention is drawn to the opening paragraph, all in caps:

IF YOU HAVE HAD PREVIOUS MILITARY SERVICE OR ARE NOW A MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL GUARD OR A RESERVE COMPONENT OF THE ARMED FORCES, BRING EVIDENCE WITH YOU. IF YOU WEAR GLASSES, BRING THEM. IF MARRIED, BRING PROOF OF YOUR MARRIAGE. IF YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL OR MENTAL CONDITION WHICH, IN YOUR OPINION, MAY DISQUALIFY YOU FOR SERVICE IN THE ARMED FORCES, BRING A PHYSICIAN’S CERTIFICATE DESCRIBING THAT CONDITION, IF NOT ALREADY FURNISHED TO YOUR LOCAL BOARD.

There is more thought the young draftee in waiting:

"If you have life insurance, bring a record of the insurance company’s address and your policy number. Bring enough clean clothes for 3 days. Bring enough money to last 1 month for personal purchases. If found qualified, you will be inducted into the Armed Forces.

Willful failure to report at the place and hour of the day named in this Order subjects the violator to fine and imprisonment. Bring this Order with you when you report."

Having volunteered for the draft, even though he had a 2-S deferment as a college student, Conor thinks, I’m ready. I’ll be there.

His parents had encouraged him to remain in college, get a degree, and go into the service as an officer. But he was restless, meandering, and drawn by a sense of obligation to serve his country. He wanted to pay his dues as his father and multiple uncles had done—even his aunt Marty who served as an Army nurse on New Guinea. They all came home, some with Purple Hearts and a myriad of lasting memories.

He will tell his folks after dinner. Now, it is off on a run through the valley and the woods. He alternated days lifting and running, a schedule not unlike his routine in preparing for two-a-days when football opened each August. Wearing 215 pounds on his 6’ 2" frame, he intends to be ready for boot camp.

Chapter 3

23 JUL 1966,

Fort Benning, Georgia

The Trailways bus pulled in, and two men in Smokey the Bear hats appear eager to greet the occupants who are fatigued following a twenty-hour bus ride from Cleveland. After a long, disorganized day of physicals, written tests, and forms to complete, those qualifying were sworn in as soldiers in the United States Army. It was some transformation. Before they took the oath they were addressed as Gentlemen and Sir. After the oath, they were privates, which made them lower than whale shit.

Move it, ladies, we don’t have all frigging day for all y’all to powder your nose and straighten your petticoats, drawled one of the Smokeys. He wore three stripes up and one rocker: a staff sergeant.

Line your raggedy asses up and pretend that you are soldiers. Another Smokey, this one with three stripes, asks if it’s anyone’s birthday. It is, but McKall is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Sound advice his father gave him: Son, keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut in training. The man next in line turns to McKall, Hey, didn’t you say it’s your birthday? He turned to shush the dummy then heard three-stripe Smokey announce that we have a birthday boy, and since his mama isn’t here to hold his hand and sing happy birthday then his new family will do so. Private McKall is pulled out of formation and ordered to stand at attention facing the formation.

To the patchwork formation Smokey barks in that uniquely DI cadence: Drop down, assume the position, and prepare to give me twenty while simultaneously singing happy birthday to this private. On my count and everybody better sing loud and clear. It is barely recognizable but passes as a happy birthday to the private.

On your feet, stand at attention, bellowed the three-striper, now, the birthday private will thank all y’all by dropping down and giving twenty-five while proclaiming ‘thank you’ for the lovely birthday present. When McKall is done and returned to the formation, off they march for haircuts and long lines issuing clothes and gear. Private Conor Patrick McKall winces as the clippers bear down on his head removing hair, leaving nicks, cuts, and random stubble. Welcome to the Big Green Machine!

Chapter 4

August 1966

Mary Ann McKall opens the letter addressed to her from the Department of the Army, Fort Benning, dated 17 Aug 66 from a brigadier general.

Dear Mrs. McKall:

Your son has arrived at Fort Benning, Georgia to begin his military training in the US Army Training Center, Infantry. He is taking his place with the thousands of other young Americans in the most serious obligation and greatest privilege of citizenship—protecting our freedom. He will receive the best instruction possible. A trained soldier, physically, mentally, and morally sound, has a much better chance of survival in combat.

Although his training will be rigorous and challenging, we are confident that he will successfully meet this challenge. We strive to instill the necessary discipline that results in cheerful obedience while preserving the individual initiative that is so characteristic of the American Soldier. In fact, we believe that he will derive many personal benefits from his military training.

I suggest you correspond with him frequently. Cheerful letters, with the latest news about home, from those he holds dear will offer unlimited encouragement. I assure you he will be encouraged to correspond regularly with you, ensuring your peace of mind.

Our goal at Fort Benning is to train men to be good soldiers and good citizens who will be a credit to themselves, their families, and their country. With your help and encouragement, this goal can be attained.

Mary Ann feels so much better having received the letter and packet of materials relating to Fort Benning. It all sounds so professional. She feels sure that the Army is taking diligent care of her son. She cannot wait to show this to Conor’s father, an Army veteran of World War II, when he comes home from work. As Mary Ann stands to head to the kitchen the thought that her son might be sent to Vietnam dampens her mood.

Chapter 5

Basic Training, Fort Benning

The first couple weeks of basic the new soldiers are introduced to the singular world of military life. Not only does each soldier have to look and act the part but so do all physical things that interact with the soldier. All brass, shoes, and boots must display at all appropriate times a shine that defies logic since the first time one wears that item the hours spent placing it in proper form vanish as if they never occurred but, to be sure, will be repeated again and again.

The soldier’s bunks and foot lockers must be maintained in a specified manner, and no deviations are accepted. The two-story wooden barracks occupied by the Fifth Platoon might as well be a cathedral because at times of inspection one can only pray that the DI does not find even one tiny flaw in the cleanliness of the commodes, showers, and especially the waxed floors. One can easily shave using the floors as a substitute mirror and eat off the floors at inspection time. But if not flawless, there is hell to pay, and the entire platoon pays the price.

Unlike uniforms and other standard issue items, sleep is not something the Army issues to basic trainees. By the time one attends to personal and platoon responsibilities and falls exhausted into one’s bunk, the reality of an 0400 reveille substitutes for the nightmare that the soldier would have but for the exhaustion that robs their ability to dream.

Adjusting quickly to military life, Private McKall continues to appreciate the wisdom of his father’s advice to keep eyes and ears open and mouth shut in basic training. His fellow soldiers hail from Ohio, Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida. All shapes, sizes, colors, and attitudes are represented from the gung-ho kill the commie bastards recruit to this is all a mistake because I am not supposed to be in the Army guy. Most of the guys take this seriously, but a few are chronic fuckups. Physical training is robust, and McKall is pleased that he prepared himself. The mental abuse? Well, it is not so easy to prepare for the myriad ways that the DI’s will mess with your mind.

Close order drill and marching in formation are treated with reverence, as all trainees in the platoon must move and react as one. Deviation is unwelcomed and individualism is punished. You will move, react, and think as one, announced Fifth Platoon’s DI, or y’all will most certainly suffer as one. Marching in formation brought new cadences that required the platoon to sound off like you got a pair. A favored opportunity to sound off while marching in formation is to the obstacle course that must be traversed if one wants to enter the mess hall for chow.

Ain’t no use in going back

Ain’t no use in going back

Jody’s got your Cadillac

Jody’s got your Cadillac

Sound off

One, two

Sound off

Three, four

Cadence count

One, two, three, four. One, two…three, four.

Straighten that formation up, look like soldiers—not a bunch of cub scouts.

I don’t know but I heard rumors

I don’t know but I heard rumors

All the WACs wear khaki bloomers

All the WACs wear khaki bloomers

Some wear pink and some wear white

Some wear pink and some wear white

Someone gets in them every night

Someone gets in them every night

Sound off

One, two

Sound off

Three, four

Break it on down

One, two, three, four. One, two…three, four.

One afternoon the platoon marches over to a one-story wood building and presents single file at the entrance. Rumor is that the new soldiers will request the MOS they wish to be assigned and the duty station following advanced individual training. Some of the men are succumbing to wild fantasies as they muse about receiving military occupation specialties like clerk, mechanic, cook, truck driver, chaplain’s assistant, and the like as opposed to infantry, artillery, or armor. Even more fanciful are the trainees that trip out on the idea that they will be stationed in Germany, Hawaii, the pentagon, or an installation close to their home so that they can make it back on the weekends to see girlfriends and party with the old crowd.

The soldier in front of McKall sits at a chair by the desk of a PFC clerk completing forms that capture the requested MOS and duty station of each man in the platoon. Standing near, he overhears the colloquy between the men.

Clerk: "This is your opportunity to tell the Army what job skills you have and what you are best suited for in your enlistment. Tell the Army what you would like to do and where you want to be stationed."

Soldier: Really, this is better than I expected. We get to pick what we want to do in the Army?

Clerk: Sure enough but you understand that there are no guarantees. It doesn’t hurt to ask, right?

Soldier: I am a pretty good mechanic ‘cuz I helped my brother work on his cars. And I worked part-time at the only gas station in town when I was in high school.

Clerk: Hell, that’s good enough for the Army. I will put down mechanic. Now, where do you want to be stationed after training?

Soldier: Anywhere but Vietnam.

Clerk: I can dig that. How about Germany, I understand those frauleins are something else.

This clerk is blowing some serious smoke up this guy’s ass, reasons McKall as he watches the charade.

Soldier: I don’t speak German. Do you think that would be a problem?

Clerk: Heck no, you know that love is the universal language, and those girls speak that for sure. So, I am putting you down for Germany and for mechanic MOS.

Soldier: You are the man, gotta give my thanks to you.

Clerk: Alright soldier, move on so I can square these other dudes away.

The clerk snickers as the soldier stands, turns to McKall and proclaims, This is gonna be your lucky day—it sure is mine.

Don’t bet the farm on it.

Huh, what farm?

Pointing to the next station McKall motions for the soldier to move on and takes a seat. Before the clerk could commence his spiel, McKall directs him to forget the bullshit and mark this down. The clerk starts to respond, thinks better of it and picks up his pen.

For MOS put down infantry, 11Bravo, and I volunteer airborne. For duty station, mark Vietnam which is where I will be assigned as will the soldier you just bullshitted and everyone else in this platoon. Any questions?

The clerk stares at the soldier before him and thinks this guy must have a death wish. Let me get this straight. You want me to mark that you elect infantry, want jump school, and then posting to Vietnam?

Bingo! McKall stands, towers over the clerk, bends forward over the desk causing the clerk to sit back in his chair. One more thing, if you blow smoke at any more of these guys behind me, I will let them all know that you were only having fun at their expense. You are fucking with their minds as you sit here fat and happy at Fort Benning knowing that this little routine of yours is a charade. Understood?

Red faced, the sheepish clerk replies, Man, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to put my time in just like you.

Bending over the desk McKall again asks, Understood?

Yeah, I understand.

When every man completes the time-wasting process, the platoon gathers in formation and double times to the obstacle course for more PT, all while singing like they got a pair.

After several weeks, the trainees are assigned the M-14 rifle for familiarization and qualification. The drill instructor, a staff sergeant wearing a CIB and the 25th Infantry Division patch informs the trainees of Company D, 9th Battalion, 3rd Brigade that the M-14 is an air-cooled weapon that fires a 7.62mm round weighing approximately 9 ½ pounds unloaded and 11 ½ fully loaded with a 20-round magazine. Gentlemen, the instructor bellows, you will train to fire this weapon from the prone, sitting, squatting, kneeling, and standing positions. You will learn to stroke this weapon with tenderness as it will be your best honey if you are fortunate enough to be assigned one in Vietnam. And yes, you are going to Vietnam so best pay close attention. Following the lecture, McKall zeros his M-14 at twenty-five meters firing from the prone position.

After two weeks of rifle range the trainees fire for record at pop-up targets at distances of 75, 175, and 300 meters with times limited in which to fire at the target to 5, 7, and 10 seconds, respectively. Adding difficulty, the targets are interspersed in the woods and the terrain presents uneven ground. Qualifying as expert is a challenge on the Benning course. It did occur to McKall and several other privates in Fifth Platoon that from what they were reading and hearing about infantry fighting in Vietnam there would be little opportunity to fire at the enemy at distances the length of a football field. Battles in the boonies tended to occur at close range.

One night, around 2350 hours, McKall and Reyburn are sitting on the barracks steps spit-shining boots and low quarter shoes. The lights above, with numerous insects hovering about, provide illumination. The barracks is dark as the rest of the platoon is sacked out. Reyburn is from Cleveland and rode down to Georgia on the same bus as McKall. By around the third week of basic training, the two realized that they were competing against one another to be recognized as the top trainee in the platoon. They pushed each other.

McKall, is it possible to be too exhausted to sleep?

Aren’t we exhibits A and B to that question?

Reyburn thinks about that for a moment, Alright, which exhibit are you?

McKall chuckles, That’s a lay-up. I am exhibit A so that makes you B.

You are right, that was a lay-up. Maybe I am sleep walking.

Staff Sergeant Walker rounded the corner of the barracks and approaches his trainees. Walker is always squared away. His jump boots are shined, and his fatigues are perfectly creased—every day. He wears the expert infantryman badge without the wreath, indicating that he has not yet done an infantry tour of duty in Vietnam.

Looking at his watch, Walker says, Reveille is right around the corner.

McKall replies, But we need to be standing tall and looking good and can’t do that racked out, Staff Sergeant.

Walker offered a slight smile. Where are you from Reyburn?

A suburb of Cleveland, McKall and I went to the same high school but were in different classes.

Did you two compete against one another back home?

Reyburn and McKall look at each other and laugh. McKall quips, Is it that obvious, Staff Sergeant?

Looking again at his watch, Walker observes, Reveille is creeping up, soldiers.

As Walker moves off, Reyburn says, When the bugle sounds at 0400, Staff Sergeant Walker will be there flicking on the lights and hollering in our ears.

He will be standing tall and looking good. When does he sleep?

Bayonet instruction is part of the basic training and conducted near the end of the cycle. The DIs like this part of basic training. They get to watch the trainees beat the hell out of each other with pugil sticks. The sticks approximate the length and weight of an M-14 with bayonet. The ends, representing the bayonet and the rifle butt, are padded just enough to lessen the pain that is going to be inflicted on the combatant by the other combatant. The objective is to aggressively beat one’s opponent with both ends of the pugil stick until he is knocked to the ground or is so physically dominated that the DI calls a halt to the contest. No doubt because of injuries inflicted in these contests, the Army provides gloves, groin protection and a helmet to the participants. These items don’t necessarily need to fit the trainee but if the Army says that one size fits all then the items fit. End of discussion. There are occasions when a helmet is too large to fit snugly on a trainee’s head and after being hit up alongside the head the helmet rotates around and the part that covers the ear then covers the face. The trainee’s opponent takes full advantage and pummels the blinded adversary until a DI decides to step in.

Some of the trainees do, at some point, contemplate the possibility that they will need to fix bayonets in Vietnam.

The men of Fifth Platoon stand in PT formation before the DIs who silently acknowledge that the rabble inherited seven weeks before now look and act like soldiers.

The weak links have been recycled or processed for discharge.

Gentlemen, you have now reached the point where I can double time you without being embarrassed. We are going to double time, and you will not, under any circumstances, embarrass me or Sergeant Green. Is that understood?

Yes, Drill Sergeant, in unison.

We are about to pass by the Ranger school, and y’all will be standing tall and looking good.

The platoon moved off in formation marching by the many barracks comprising that section of Harmony Church.

Standing tall and looking good

Standing tall and looking good

We should be in Hollywood

We should be in Hollywood

Cadence count….

In double time, as the platoon nears the Ranger school, they sound off loud and clear.

I wanna be an Airborne Ranger

I wanna be an Airborne Ranger

I wanna live a life of danger

I wanna live a life of danger

Here we go

Here we go

All the way

All the way

Everyday

Everyday

Airborne

Airborne

Ranger

Ranger

Agrrrrrr

AGRRRRRR!

The DIs are pleased so the platoon is allowed to visit the PX to pick up anything required for the upcoming graduation at week’s end. Some of the soldiers expect family and loved ones to attend the ceremony. Reyburn received orders to Fort Sill for artillery AIT. McKall is to report promptly to Fort Gordon for the start of Airborne Infantry AIT, so he has discouraged his family from traveling to Columbus, Georgia, for the occasion. I do not have the time to celebrate, only time to get ready for Vietnam reasoned PVT Conor Patrick McKall whose mindset is decidedly focused.

Chapter 6

November 1966,

Wisconsin

As a light snow sprinkled the six hundred acres of farmland near Rice Lake, Wisconsin, looking out the kitchen window, Knut Nilsen deemed it unlikely that he will see any snow in Vietnam.

We are going to miss you this Thanksgiving, commented his mother, it will be two years now that you have not been with the family on Thanksgiving.

Look at it this way, Mom, it means that my year will be up, and I will be back for Thanksgiving 1967. I will be home on a well-deserved leave.

Ingrid Nilsen dried her hands on the kitchen towel and turned toward her son. Knut, your father and I will pray every day for your safe return. Promise me that you will be careful over there.

Knut stood, then walked over and gave Mom a hug, "Of course I’ll be careful. I am too young and handsome to not come home. Another plus, I’ll have the GI Bill to help with college costs, and with the money I saved working as a deckhand I’ll be able to enroll as soon as I complete my two-year obligation."

A few of Knut’s high school classmates enlisted soon after graduation, but most had gone on to college. His talents on the ice led to several small college hockey scholarship offers but not the one he coveted. He had his mind set on playing for the Wisconsin Badgers, and he intended to do just that. But he needed college money, and he has refused to allow his parents to co-sign for a student loan with the farm as security. Luckily, his uncle Lars, an official with the United Steelworkers Union, hooked him up with the hiring manager at Columbia Transportation, a company with a dozen vessels plowing the Great Lakes, and Knut took a bus north to Silver Bay to sign on as an ordinary seaman to the SS Buckeye. A crane boat, the Buckeye docked to take on a load of taconite pellets for transit to Cleveland. He sailed that summer and fall of 1965, working seven days a week with time and a half for overtime and double time for Sundays and holidays. Knut banks most of his earnings and learns quickly that deckhands are expected to work during loading and unloading, depending on the product being hauled, and as the junior deckhand he drew the short straws.

The Buckeye was laid up for the season on Christmas Eve, and he has the winter to fill in before the ice starts to break up and the new shipping season kicks off. He is hired as a laborer at a local factory and plays on the company’s hockey team which, some say, is the reason he got the job. The team won the league, and Knut is told that he can come back next winter, and a job will be waiting for him.

Knut calculates that if he steamboats for the shipping season in 1966 he could enroll for the winter semester at Madison and have a bank account to cover him for two years. This is time enough for me to earn a hockey scholarship. Uncle Sam, however, has a way of redirecting one to the uncle’s plan, particularly if one’s status is 1-A, and it comes in the form of a draft notice. Calling home on Sunday from Buffalo, Knut learned from his father that he must report for the induction physical in less than two weeks.

Guess that you better come home, son.

Knut Nilsen did his basic training at Fort Jackson and Infantry AIT at Fort Polk, aka Tigerland. Can Vietnam be any worse than Polk?

Chapter 7

October 1966,

Fort Gordon, Georgia

The airborne infantry trainees are billeted in aged cement barracks with coal-fed stoves at each end for heat. Even Augusta gets cold at night in the fall. The barracks had been used for German prisoners of war over two decades earlier and had been brought

Reviews for Cheerful Obedience

[Patrick McLaughlin · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a bit unusual, so let me explain. I am Patrick McLaughlin, the author of Cheerful Obedience. Yes, of course, I gave it a 5-Star, but you can zero that out, read the book and leave your thoughts in a rating. I write because the information provided stating other books by this author (listing two) is incorrect. I did not author those books, only Cheerful Obedience is mine. The "real" author.