Cong Catchers: A Soldier's Memories of Vietnam

By Lee Halverson

Lee spent January 1969 to December 1970 in the US Army. Cong Catchers is a compilation of events that occurred while he served. This is not a guns-and-ammo book. It is a book about a young man with Christian values at war. A young man who avoided the pleasures that were readily available and instead organized football games, drank soda, avoided drugs, and helped repair orphanages. You will enjoy meeting many of those he served with and the ways they coped in very adverse conditions. These young men served our country with valor and returned home to a less-than-friendly society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781635259834

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CONG CATCHERS

A Soldier’s Memories of Vietnam

Lee Halverson

with

Ed Nielsen

ISBN 978-1-63525-982-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63525-983-4 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Lee Halverson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

From hilarity to horror, often in the same day!

Cong Catchers provides a detailed view of life in a combat zone. Lee Halverson served as a Military Police dog handler in Vietnam, writing daily letters to his wife back in the States. He recently used those letters to pen a well-received series of articles for his hometown newspaper. Lee then enlisted the help of Ed Nielsen to turn those articles into the continuous narrative that you’re now holding. As you read these pages, you’ll be reminded of escapades in the movie M*A*S*H* while other events are more reminiscent of those in Full Metal Jacket or Platoon. These pages contain humorous episodes, some midnight requisitioning, also a fair share of hair-raising events. In all Cong Catchers recounts the day-to-day thoughts and experiences of a soldier and his brothers in arms serving their country and trying to make it home alive. Cong Catchers may be the most comprehensive memoir ever written by a Vietnam War veteran.

Ed Nielsen

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Ginny. It was her prayers and our faith in Jesus Christ that kept me alive and sane in Vietnam. It was her love and understanding that restored me when I came home.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my parents, Bendix and Margaret Halverson, for raising me in the Christian faith.

My daughters, Missy and Ginger, deserve to be recognized for understanding when I couldn’t take them to a fourth of July fireworks display. They took it in stride when I dove into the bushes when I heard a sound similar to a rifle shot. They attended our MP dog handler reunion in St. Louis and visited with the guys in my unit. Afterwards, they told me, Dad! All those things you told us are true! And finally, they knew I needed to see the wall for its healing effects. Afterwards, they gave me a picture of a man standing at the wall touching the name of one of his lost friends. I love you.

A big thanks to Ed Nielson, who got me going on the book. The foundation that he wrote from my articles got me started and helped me to finish.

I appreciate Ginny Smith, editor of the Sioux Rapids portion of the Spencer Daily Reporter, who accepted my articles and reminded me when another one was due.

Thanks to all the people in the Sioux Rapids area that faithfully read my articles and gave me moral support. I can’t forget Mrs. Fortune, my English teacher in high school who always assured me that someday I would appreciate prose and poetry. You were right, Mrs. Fortune!

And finally, thanks to Ginny. When we went to St. Louis for our reunion; the guys could have cared less if I were there…they wanted to see Ginny! She supported me and helped me through this entire undertaking. And boy, do I love you!

I would like to thank Christian Faith Publishing for accepting my writing and assisting me in the process of getting it published. A special thanks to Paula Hengle who gave me that special attention.

Foreword

I grew up on a farm in Northwest Iowa. My base of values came from a strict working-class family and the Lutheran church where I was baptized and confirmed. Therefore, Christian values and the values of a good work ethic had been ingrained within me.

After graduation from high school, I attended Iowa State University. While at Iowa State, I met my wife, Ginny. She too had been raised on the farm and in a Christian family and had very similar values as mine. Early in our relationship, we made a commitment that Jesus Christ would be the center of our marriage. Together we would pray and seek guidance from him.

When I completed my studies at Iowa State, I went about the process of finding a job. This was 1968, and the Vietnam War was in full swing. I soon learned that an able-bodied young man who was eligible for the draft would have trouble finding good employment. The reason being that once someone had gone to the work of training me, I could be drafted. Understanding this, I went to speak with the recruiters. At the time, there was a two-year enlistment available. It seemed to be my only option, so I took it.

Ginny and I wrote letters to each other every day while I was in the service. We saved not only those letters, but also the letters I received from others. Consequently, there were a lot of letters. In the back of my mind, I had always wanted to write a book about my Vietnam experience. The trouble was that to do that, I had to read the letters. We were married for twenty-two days when I left for Vietnam. The whole year I was gone was very emotional for both of us. One day in early 2000, we were sorting through some boxes that we had stored and came across the boxes of letters. We immediately took some out and began to read. Within a very few minutes, we were both in tears. It was amazing how much had been hidden down deep in our hearts.

Then in 2008, I began to write a column for the local newspaper. I found that if I used just one letter at a time and interspersed the articles with memories of my growing up on the farm, I could get through the letters. Every letter has brought back memories for both of us. Some of the memories make us laugh and some still make us cry. But the best part of it all is being able to share those memories with our family. Our daughters Missy and Ginger grew up hearing these stories. We took them to a reunion of the 981st MP Company several years ago. After wandering around for a while talking to my compatriots, Ginger came back to us and said, Dad, all those stories you have been telling us are true! Yes, to the best of my memory, they are true. I have taken the liberty of changing some of the names, but the events are real.

Most of the books about Vietnam deal with troop strength, weaponry, battles, body counts and so on. Not this one. For the most part, I am an optimist, and when I returned to the world, I decided it was important to focus on the good things that happened. The letters and our belief in Jesus Christ brought me through that year of separation and the transition I had to make when I returned home. I still have occasional nightmares, though they have diminished over the years. But there is not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God for bringing me home safe and mostly sound.

Chapter 1

Entering the Army

In 1964, when I turned eighteen, I had to go to the Buena Vista County courthouse and register for the draft as was the obligation of every young American male. I never thought much more about it until years later when the war in Vietnam came to a head. Many young American boys were being drafted to fight, and there were few exclusions: Quakers, conscientious objectors, those who were physically or mentally handicapped, and those of us who were given a deferment from the draft because we were in school. Many made a career of going to college in order to avoid the draft.

When I graduated from Iowa State University, I walked across the stage to accept my diploma, went back to my room at Alumni Hall, and found my draft notice hanging on my door. That’s how efficient the whole system was! Imagine the people responsible for drafting young men, having done enough research to know the exact day Lee Halverson would graduate.

The letter said, Congratulations! Your friends and relatives have selected you to represent them in the United States Military. I was told to report to Fort Des Moines for a physical. I reported for the physical, but they told that me I had a small rupture. It would prevent me from getting into the military, but it wasn’t bad enough to be classified as 4-F, the classification that said one was medically unfit for the military.

I asked, What do I do? No one will hire me because I’m classified 1-A. You won’t accept me because I have a small rupture, but you won’t classify me as 4-F. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard spot!

I had received eight job offers from companies who really wanted me. One of them was Hormel Foods in Austin, Minnesota. I wanted the job, and they wanted me. But not as long as I was classified as 1-A and might be drafted.

I decided that my problem was my hernia. It was either going to get worse and I would become 4-F or it would get better and I could pass my physical, do my duty, and then get on with my life. So I bought a set of weights and began to lift weights in earnest. Either the weights would bust the hernia into one large enough to be excluded or they would build muscle and I would pass.

My next appointment for a physical came a few months later. Ginny and I drove from Sioux Rapids to Des Moines. We had decided to become engaged, and we would shop for wedding rings after my physical. She planned to watch soap operas until I returned. Ginny left and I entered the waiting room. I sat down amongst a group of nervous-looking young men. The guy next to me had tattoos and long hair. He looked confident.

I’ve got ’em beat, he confided. Ya rub soap in your armpits, and it’ll raise your blood pressure so high you’ll fail. I nodded and got up to walk around. I didn’t want to offend him, but I didn’t want to sit next to him and continue his conversation. I walked around the room for a while and finally sat down by a rather large fellow.

I’ve got ’em beat, he exclaimed with a smile. He spread his legs and showed me a small vial resting between them. It’s a urine sample from a friend of mine. He’s got sugar diabetes. I’ll pour it into my pee cup and I’ll be out of here quicker than you can blink your eyes. I nodded to him and got up to walk around the room again. This time I found a bank of empty chairs and sat down there.

A tall young man entered the room. He moved with the grace of a dancer. There was no question that this young man was a good athlete. He stood in the shadows of the door and looked the room over. He looked at the guy with the tattoos and the fat guy with the urine sample and then at me. Then he walked over to my area and sat nervously beside me. He was on my left, and I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I noticed that the entire right side of his face was covered with a bright red birthmark.

I immediately felt sympathy for him and I extended my hand and said, My name’s Lee.

He hungrily grabbed my hand and said, Smith. William Smith, but everyone calls me Smitty.

We talked for a while, and I soon found out that Smitty was a farm boy just like me. He had just graduated from high school and had received his draft notice, since he was not going on to college. So there we were… an eighteen-year-old and a twenty-two-year-old being drafted together.

At that time, an army sergeant entered the room. All right, everyone follow me for your physical.

We entered the area and were told to strip. There were stalls for each of us to hang our clothing and leave our personal belongings. Then we were ushered to another room where we were told to line up, lean over, and spread our cheeks. A few of the guys leaned over and grabbed the cheeks of their mouths, pulling them apart. No, you idiots! Your butt cheeks! The rest of us laughed as the guys in question made the proper changes as the doctors made their observations.

All right. All of you grab a little cup and pee in it. I noticed the fat guy was already foiled in his attempt to deceive them. They had us walk into the area naked. There just wasn’t any way for him to carry his little vial.

Then we went through the normal physical routine of taking our blood pressure, breathing while the doctor listened with that cold stethoscope, looking into our mouths and being tested for a hernia.

Cough, the doctor would say as he felt the muscles of the abdomen for weakness.

The calm was shattered when the guy with the tattoos shouted, What? What do you mean… perfect! My blood pressure is high… not perfect!

The doctor smiled at him and said, Tried the old soap trick, huh? Sorry, son… it doesn’t work.

Do any of you prefer boys to girls? Most of us started laughing, but one fellow who obviously bordered on being mentally challenged said, I like boys! The laughing got even louder as two doctors whisked the young man into a private room. Shortly thereafter, the young man was released. The military did not accept gays nor anyone who was in question of being gay in those days. And the military did not call them gays… they called them queers.

Smitty went through a routine that would become very familiar to me over the next few years. He twitched his shoulder and tipped his head at the same time. Looks like we got rid of Sheela! Everyone in the room roared with laughter, and I knew that Smitty was a guy that had a natural ability to impact people.

This time I passed the physical with flying colors. Apparently, the weight lifting had strengthened my muscles. I wasn’t crazy about going into the army, but at least I would no longer be in limbo. I’d do my two years of service, get it over with, and come back home.

How were the soap operas? I asked Ginny. She didn’t look happy as she explained that NASA was sending up another rocket today and every network had covered it. No soaps! I knew that this was a good time to keep my mouth shut, so I said nothing as we drove to Plumb’s in downtown Des Moines. Ginny looked at every ring in the store.

I quickly browsed the ring section, pointed, and said, That’s it! I had selected a matching set of wedding bands that were gold with the Greek key symbol of love etched into them.

Oh, those are nice, she said, but we have to look at more.

Are you kidding? These are perfect. Let’s buy them and go bowling!

We shopped for the rest of the day and eventually came back to Plumb’s and purchased our wedding bands with the Greek symbol of love.

On January 7, l969, my mom and dad drove Ginny and me to the Des Moines airport in their white Rambler with the pretty blue seats. Ironically, Ginny and I had met exactly two years earlier on this date. Everyone was in good spirits for this event. After all, Basic Training is something every young man must take upon entering the military. We all perceived it to be more like going to Boy Scout camp or something similar.

Surely they won’t send a college graduate to Vietnam, Mom said. Once they see your abilities in Basic Training, they will want you to be in a more important, useful position.

I remember when I took Basic Training, Dad said. Those drill sergeants will scare you to death, but you’ll come through it just fine.

Ginny was all teary eyed at the prospect of being apart, but she bravely took it all in stride. I shook hands with Dad, and he told me to stand tall. I hugged Mom, and she promised to write letters.

We’ll see you soon!

And with that, Ginny walked beside me through the airport and right up to the steps that led to the airplane. As we walked, the airport’s sound system played I’m a leavin’ on a Jet Plane by Peter, Paul and Mary. The words Oh, babe; I hate to go repeated themselves over and over again in my mind.

Chapter 2

Basic Training

I landed in Dallas and found Smitty waiting at my gate like a little boy lost at the state fair. We joined a number of recruits at the USO where we would wait for a flight to Fort Polk, Louisiana. Funny, when you’re away from home, you identify with anyone from your neck of the woods. We immediately noticed Mike, another GI who had gone through his physical with Smitty and me. We came together as if we had grown up with one another, kind of like when you go to Disney World and see someone from a neighboring town that you’ve never even spoken to, but you recognize him and converse as if you’ve known each other forever.

Mel, a perfect stranger, joined us as well. He was a chain smoker, and I gave him the nickname Smokey the Bear. He called me Short Stuff, but that nickname never stuck because Smitty quickly said, No. He’s my dad while I’m away from home! From that point on, I was known as Dad to everyone I would encounter. At twenty-two, I was the old man in the group. John was eighteen and fresh off the farm. He became Farmer John. Dave was from a gang called the Outlaws in Waterloo. He was in trouble with the law, and a judge had given him a choice of going to jail or signing up for the army. Dave made it clear to us that he was one tough dude and wouldn’t put up with any guff from anybody. I nicknamed him Percy! Everyone laughed, and that was the end of his playing the tough guy. Everywhere he went, he was greeted with How ya doin’, Percy!

Somehow, we knew the importance of nicknames. We were of all faiths, backgrounds, communities, and histories with the law. We didn’t want to use proper names because we were leery of each other and didn’t want to get too close to someone we didn’t trust. Later, in Vietnam, we used nicknames because we didn’t want to get too close to a buddy knowing that he might get blown away.

We flew from Dallas, Texas to Fort Polk, Louisiana. There we were assigned to a holding company, a holding company being nothing more than a large warehouse with a glorified secretary noting who had arrived. This secretary was a man who looked like a bulldog, and in my estimation was meaner to boot! He barked orders at us and apparently knew which company each of us was assigned to. He sorted us into little groups, and each group would eventually be taken to its respective company. Smitty and I reclined on our duffle bags and rested. We were already getting used to one of the most popular rules in the army: Hurry up and wait!

At two in the morning, we were awakened by our bulldog secretary. All you rubber heads in Company B, Fifth Battalion, get ready to load up.

We grabbed our duffle bags, and were herded into a waiting deuce and a half truck. There were benches on either side of a deuce and a half that comfortably seated twelve men. However, the seats were folded up to the side and no one would be sitting down for this ride. The drill sergeants accompanying us barked and pushed until they had loaded fifty of us onto the truck. We were packed in like sardines with no room to breathe, let alone move into a comfortable position.

The drill sergeants continued to call us vile names, and they seemed to be especially partial to rubber head. They didn’t talk; they yelled at the top of their voices, and made it evident that they were there to instill the fear of the Lord in each and every one of us.

The driver took special care to swerve the truck from side to side, resulting in all of us falling against one another to maintain our balance. The truck had a tarp over the top, and I’m sure they had plumbed the exhaust to exit beneath the tarp. The exhaust fumes were suffocating us, and we were all fighting each other to maintain our balance as the truck continued to swerve from side to side and the drill sergeant continued to yell at us through the window from the cab.

Finally, the truck stopped and the end gate dropped. Our drill sergeant yelled at us to disembark and line up. None of us knew how to make a formation, so we meandered around, trying to do the right thing, while the drill sergeants yelled at us, called us names, and told us we were doing it all wrong. Some of the recruits began to cry.

Oh, poor baby want to go home to Mommy? the sergeant jeered. Look at me when I’m talking to you, rubber head, and address me by my proper title!

Yes, sir, the recruit would say.

Don’t you cuss at me! I’m not a sir!

The recruit began to cry even more.

I’m a drill sergeant, and you will address me as drill sergeant! Don’t you ever cuss at me again. Got it?

Yes, sir, came the reply, and the whole episode began all over again.

About the time recruits got the hang of saying, Yes, drill sergeant, an officer would confront the new recruit.

And this time the poor, dumb slob would respond by saying, Yes, drill sergeant!

And of course the officer would reply, "Don’t you cuss at me. You will call me sir!"

And this little game continued to repeat itself as the officers and drill sergeants circled like sharks looking for the weakest among us so they could attack again. None of us knew military insignias, and were completely confused and scared to death. We didn’t know what to say to whom. And that was the design of Basic Training in those days. The objective was to completely humiliate each recruit and reduce them to a quivering mass of Jell-O in order to begin proper training.

Finally, the drill sergeants called our names in alphabetical order and assigned us to a bed. They were bunk beds lined up about four feet apart. Our barracks building had two stories with fifty recruits on each floor. Each of us had a footlocker at the end of the bunk bed and a wall locker beside the bed. We threw our belongings into the wall lockers and climbed into bed as drill sergeants screamed names at us and ordered, Lights out! I lay there awake and pondered what was in store for us. I’d never been so scared, disoriented, and petrified in my life.

***

We were awakened at four o’clock in the morning by our drill sergeant, yelling and hammering his baton on the ends of the beds.

Get up, you bunch of rubber heads! Do your three S’s (shit, shower, and shave) and get ready for breakfast! We stood three deep in the shower while he continued to scream obscenities at us and demand that we hurry up. Formation outside the barracks in ten minutes! he yelled. We all scurried as fast as we could and went outside for formation.

Dress it up, he demanded.

That meant that we in the front row all had to extend our right hands to the shoulder of the person on our right. As soon as we were an arm’s length apart, the rows behind us had to line up directly behind the person in the front row. Our company lined up with twelve men in front all an arm’s length apart. Three more lines of men stood directly behind the man in front of them. It was a beautiful thing!

Ten hut! he yelled, meaning that we all had to stand at attention.

Then our drill sergeant went from man to man, inspecting our dress, shoes, and shave. He carried a razor with him for the poor unfortunate soul who didn’t get the job done right.

Did you forget to put a blade in your shaver, you rubber head?

Then he would take his Bic and dry shave the poor slob right on the spot. The recruit would stand there, crying with blood dripping down his face from the dry shave. All of us took notice and vowed that we would be sure to shave ourselves well in the future. I sometimes shaved as many times as three times a day.

What did you do to your shoes, shine them with a Hershey bar? Drop down and push away that Louisiana soil! Give me fifty! the drill instructor barked to another recruit.

The recruit had to drop and do fifty push-ups for not shining his shoes. Once again, we all vowed silently that we would have our shoes shined in the future too! We all remained at attention for what seemed like hours while Company A went through the food line at the mess hall. We were in Company B and would be next.

Fall out and get in the food line! he barked.

We all scrambled to get in one of two lines. We were told that we couldn’t eat unless we knew our serial number and yelled it to the drill sergeant who stood at the head of the line. Half the guys didn’t know their serial number and had to go back to the barracks and, upon returning, would be back at the end of the line. My serial number was RA (Regular army) 68070861, and I yelled that number at the top of my lungs.

You’ve got five minutes to eat. If you’re not done, we’ll throw you out!

I grabbed a tray and got my helping of chipped beef on toast (SOS) and sat to eat. Outside I could hear the continuous yelling of NG (National Guard serial numbers), ER (Enlisted Reserves), and more RA serial numbers. NGs and ERs were often sent to the back of the line because the cadre (noncommissioned officers or NCOs) didn’t show respect for them. That’s because many young men joined the National Guard or the Enlisted Reserves to avoid being sent to Vietnam. They had to attend Basic Training as a part of their military obligation, but when basic ended, they would be going back home.

The cadres at Basic Training were hard-core army and looked upon these men as cowards. Only RAs were smiled upon because we weren’t trying to dodge service in Vietnam. They felt there was no distinction between RAs who had been drafted and RAs who had volunteered. We were considered to be exemplary soldiers who had joined to do our duty.

Those of us who had been at the head of the line had to wait outside until the remainder of our company finished eating.

Smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em, our sergeant would yell.

Being first in line became a must for those of us who smoked, since this was a rare opportunity. During other activities that we did together, being at the front of the line often offered other chances for a cigarette while the rest finished.

And make sure you field dress those butts! he would yell.

That meant that we had to tear the paper from our cigarette butts and sprinkle the remaining tobacco on the ground. Filters had to go in a pocket to be disposed of later.

After eating breakfast that first day, we paid a visit to the barber. There were some recruits who still had fifties-style pompadours, and there were a number of hippy types who had ponytails. The barbers watched for the two types of recruits like vultures waiting for a cow to die!

How would you like yours cut? they would ask nicely.

Then, regardless of the recruit’s reply, they would shave a strip of hair right down the middle of his skull, spin him around to look in the mirror, and wait for the recruit’s reaction. Some of the recruits would cry with their signature hairdo gone, and the barbers would laugh with glee each time that happened. Every one of us left the barbershop with what the army called the whitewall. That’s a butch haircut with the sides trimmed so short that our heads looked like a whitewall tire!

Next, the drill sergeants took us to the clothing warehouse and issued our GI clothing. First we got a duffel bag. It was olive drab in color, about four feet tall, two feet wide, and had a strap with a clip on it. As we were issued our clothes, we would fold them up and pack them into this bag. Once the bag was full, the upper flaps folded over onto a ring. The clip could be attached to this ring and formed a shoulder strap so we could carry our bag. For two years, everything I owned went into that bag. I think of the suitcases full of clothing and personal items we take on a weekend trip now and remember that literally everything I owned for my tenure in the army fit into one bag!

The supply people really knew their business. Forty-six long! the clerk said when he looked at me. And that was exactly the size of my suit coat! Eleven and a half, D! he shouted. And that was the exact size of the shoes I wore. And so it went. Before long, my bag was stuffed with shirts, underwear, socks, pants, shoes, and a class A uniform. Everything, even class A uniform, was olive drab in color. I grew to hate that color and I still do!

We marched back to our barracks and were told to unpack everything and place our clothing in either the footlocker or the wall cabinet. Everyone completed that task and then our next lesson came.

The wall cabinet was similar to the lockers we had in high school. There was a small shelf at the top. Instead of hooks like our high school lockers had, there was a pipe to accept the hangars for our class A uniforms and any other clothing we wished to hang. The footlocker was about the size of my mother’s cedar chest. It had a tray on top that sat on railings on either side of the locker. This tray would hold our socks and underwear. Beneath the tray, we could place our folded pants and shirts. Both lockers had hasps so we could use a padlock to secure our belongings.

Don’t you rubber heads know how to fold clothes? our drill sergeant yelled.

I looked and saw piles of clothing in each footlocker. Some had made an attempt at neatness, while others had just dumped their clothing and slammed the lid!

Now we would learn the army way of folding clothes, the army way of making our bed, and the army way of waxing the floors. Beds had to have hospital folds, and the blanket had to be so tight the drill sergeant could bounce a quarter on it. Socks had to be rolled into a small ball with the upper folded over the entire sock. We simply rolled the toe of the sock towards the top of the sock and when two inches was left, folded the upper over the rolled sock. Socks were then arranged in rows in the top tray of our footlockers, and it was surprising how neat this row of socks looked. Underwear, both shorts and T-shirts, had to be folded into four inch by four inch squares. Those were also lined up in order in our footlockers. Class As, field jackets, and pants could be hung in the wall locker with exactly one inch of space between each item. Our class A hat sat on the top shelf of the wall locker along with our field hat. Boots and personal belongings were at the bottom of the footlocker. I have to admit—everything was pleasing to the eye when it was done. And we never had to search for anything… we knew exactly where every item was!

Next, we had to learn how to spit-shine our boots. We all put a little water in the lids of our shoe wax cans and, after spreading polish on our boots and brushing them, we would take cotton balls soaked in water and finish the boots off so they had a mirror-like shine. The officer’s boots really did look like mirrors because they had shined them so many times. And all they needed was a hanky and a little spit to bring back the spit shine.

Drill Sergeant O’Dell smiled as he presented a gallon can of paste floor wax to us. You will make this floor so shiny that I will be able to shave by using it as a mirror, he said. The floor already looked shiny to me, so I thought waxing it would be an exercise in futility, just another aggravation in army life. My jaw dropped as O’Dell grabbed the end of a bunk bed and dragged it to one end of the barracks and back to the other, gouging huge scratches into the floor.

You will make those lines disappear and make this floor into a mirror, he said. We worked well into the night, applying wax and rubbing it into the shine with our socks.

No letter writing! You will need your sleep because we have an IG inspection tomorrow, O’Dell declared. Lights out and everybody better be in bed when I check later. O’Dell grinned at us with his yellowish teeth. He was six feet three and weighed a hundred and fifty at best. I knew other men of his size and stature in the past, and the old saying about him standing sideways, sticking out his tongue, and looking like a zipper came to mind. That would have been true of O’Dell too except for the fact that he had a huge Adam’s apple and an even larger nose. I decided that he looked and sounded like Foghorn Leghorn in the Disney cartoons.

After O’Dell made his nightly inspection, we disobeyed his orders and went back to waxing the floor for the inspector general’s visit. We didn’t want to be gigged for the floor because that would mean KP duty. (A gig was a penalty for not doing something correctly. Companies were compared by the number of gigs they had.) Everyone dreaded kitchen patrol because of the potato peeling and the washing of pots and pans.

The inspector general arrived the next day, and we all stood at attention at the foot of our beds, waiting for him to admire the wonderful work we had done on the floor. To our surprise, he put on a pair of white gloves and ran his finger over the windowsills. The fingertip of his glove turned brown immediately. As if driven by some evil force, he went to Perry’s footlocker, which looked like a ragbag.

Everyone in front leaning rest! he ordered. Front-leaning rest is the army term for the top position of a push-up. We all took the position of front-leaning rest, while the general informed us that we were in the army now.

One person screwing up can screw up the entire company, he said. You let one guy make a mistake and you could all die! So you had better learn to watch the other guy and compensate for him. If one guy screws up, you all suffer!

My arms began to shake after being in the front-leaning rest for what seemed like an eternity. Others experienced the same thing. That damned Perry, I thought. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be going through this.

Others were thinking the same thing. When that inspection was over, Perry paid!

Perry became the first victim of a GI party. He got hauled out of his bunk late one night as friends threw a blanket over him so