Nature Abhors a Vacuum
Adhering to our instructions never to pass up a house, I knocked at the door of the first home on the block. It was a modest place with what the experienced men called “sucker siding.” That was imitation brick siding made of asphalt. The old hands said, “Anyone who bought that would buy anything.” That supposedly made it a good place to stop.
I figured the chance of making a sale was nil but it would be a good chance to develop my “pitch.” A lady who must have been in her seventies met me at the door and invited me in without even asking what I wanted.
There was not a cloth rug in the house so I concentrated on using the attachments for cleaning upholstered furniture. Along into the demonstration, the husband said, “Do you think you could use this Ma?”
“Well, yes.” She replied.
He reached into his bib overalls and pulled out two twenties. “I guess that leaves the rest to me,” the woman said and went into another room. This was in Colorado and the sales tax brought the total price to something like $102.24. The wife came up with all but four cents of the exact amount so I did the natural thing and told her to forget the small change. (After all, I had just made a $35 commission). I almost lost the sale! The couple said when they agreed to a price, they paid in full and hunted around the house until they found the other four cents.
I learned several things on this first sale. One, don’t judge a house by its location or appearance and therefore follow the advice never to pass up an opportunity. The second, and one of the most important, find out the problems and the resulting needs of the customer. A third point, selling to a couple is much better than one or the other alone. The husband wants to please his wife and she is willing to take advantage of it. Alone, neither wants to take the responsibility of spending the money.
The second point noted above came to bear when it was obvious the cleaner was not essential in this household with no rugs but the couple continued to be interested. The crux of the interest came out when the husband began questioning me about the spray painting capabilities of the cleaner. It seemed he owned farms and couldn’t find anyone to paint the barns on his places. This piece of equipment was just what he was looking for. To spray paint, all one had to do was take the hose off the suction outlet and put it on the blower. Using the attachment provided, the paint could then be sprayed through the hose that normally sucked up dirt in the regular process. So knowing the customer’s problem and finding a solution sold the product.
It might be well to note here the vacuum cleaner we were selling was one of the first bell types on the market. We were told to say it was made in Newton, Iowa, implying it was a Maytag product (also manufactured in that city) and therefore a respected company. Whether our machine, called McAllister Ross, had anything to do with Maytag I don’t really know.
On to Wyoming and my first look at a “company town.” I was appalled at the squalor and the lack of hope that emanated from those unpainted homes lining both sides of the railroad tracks that hauled the coal out of the mines.
Rock Springs was a raucous town and my tender years prevented me from taking advantage of some of the entertainment. One story is told, and I swear I was not a part of it, about two of our older salesman stopping at a home only to find it was a “house of ill repute.”
Following the credo of the salesman to never pass up a house, they went in and demonstrated the cleaner. It was an instant hit but the girls claimed they didn’t have any money so the guys took the down payment out in trade. By the time summer was over, the road crew boss had been notified of the house in Rock Springs that had not made one payment on their installment contract. He sent two men to repossess the vacuum as we went by on the way back to Omaha.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Fur Stole Story
Another interesting town in Wyoming was the home of the Green River Ordinance, named for the town where it originated. This local law prohibited door-to-door salesmen from working in the municipality. It was later ruled unconstitutional but it was supposed to be in full force at the time we were there. Needless to say, our crew boss took this as a direct challenge and we worked the town hard. Actually, we sold more units in Green River than in many towns of its size.
Two of our crew were picked up for violating the Green River Ordinance. They were working after supper while we were playing pool in a local establishment. A phone call broke up the game on the table next to us but we heard the man who was called out say that he would be right back. We found out later the man called out was the municipal judge and he took just five minutes to fine our crew members ten dollars each and get back to his pool game.
That incident might indicate how honorably the judge and his friends stacked up. Upon his return, the judge, being told it was his turn, asked whether he was shooting stripes or solids. There were a lot more stripes on the table and he was told those were his to shoot. Before he left for the courtroom I had observed the judge was doing well with solids, but apparently the judicial activity had dulled his memory. The disadvantage probably caused him to lose that game but with his windfall from our compatriots he had enough to pay off his bets on the game.
The principle of finding the problem and solving it came into play one afternoon at a neighborhood grocery store. This type of business was quite common in the forties and even later until large discount stores took over. It enabled the owner to live in the back and run the business from the front.
I had to demonstrate my cleaner between customers to the man and wife who owned the store. I spent a good part of the morning talking to the couple and just felt it in my bones they wanted to buy the vacuum.
I went to lunch and came back in the afternoon to continue trying to get them to buy. It finally came out. They had just bought a new meat cutter and were concerned about having to make more monthly payments. As is the case many times, they were embarrassed about not having enough money. Consequently, it took most of the day to make that revelation.
The solution was simple. I told the man to run a want ad in his local newspaper offering to wash cars, including a thorough cleaning inside (using the attachments provided with the cleaner I was about to sell him). This was something new (upright cleaners did not have attachments). And he could vacuum cars while his wife waited on customers. And the income would make the payments on the cleaner. The idea struck a chord and they signed up immediately.
As I illustrated earlier, the poorer parts of town were better for contract sales. But I learned the opposite of that one day when I knocked on the door of a fine looking home on the outskirts of town. It turned out to be a fox farm. They raised the animals and then made fur stoles selling for $150 each - a lot of money in those days.
My point in telling this story is that these people were obviously more experienced in business than I was and would not be incensed over me rounding off the price as I had offered on my first sale.
The lady I demonstrated to thought the cleaner was great but she said she had just bought another brand and her husband would “kill” her if she bought another one.
However, if I would be willing to trade a fur stole worth $150 (according to her) for my $99.50 cleaner, we could make a deal. Since my commission was $35 that meant I was getting the stole for $64.50. I agreed to this very astute (I thought) deal.
The problem was I didn’t have the $64.50 to pay the wholesale cost of the cleaner. I had just been selling enough to pay expenses on the road. I called Mother and even though she was smart enough to know I had probably made a bad deal, she wired me the money and I sent her the fur stole.
Now tell me this. Where does a middle class working woman of modest means wear a fox fur stole, even if she had the other clothes to go with it? That was something I didn’t think about. Years later, in helping move Mother from one apartment to another, I discovered the stole in a closet, undoubtedly unworn since I had sent it to her.
Another interesting town in Wyoming was the home of the Green River Ordinance, named for the town where it originated. This local law prohibited door-to-door salesmen from working in the municipality. It was later ruled unconstitutional but it was supposed to be in full force at the time we were there. Needless to say, our crew boss took this as a direct challenge and we worked the town hard. Actually, we sold more units in Green River than in many towns of its size.
Two of our crew were picked up for violating the Green River Ordinance. They were working after supper while we were playing pool in a local establishment. A phone call broke up the game on the table next to us but we heard the man who was called out say that he would be right back. We found out later the man called out was the municipal judge and he took just five minutes to fine our crew members ten dollars each and get back to his pool game.
That incident might indicate how honorably the judge and his friends stacked up. Upon his return, the judge, being told it was his turn, asked whether he was shooting stripes or solids. There were a lot more stripes on the table and he was told those were his to shoot. Before he left for the courtroom I had observed the judge was doing well with solids, but apparently the judicial activity had dulled his memory. The disadvantage probably caused him to lose that game but with his windfall from our compatriots he had enough to pay off his bets on the game.
The principle of finding the problem and solving it came into play one afternoon at a neighborhood grocery store. This type of business was quite common in the forties and even later until large discount stores took over. It enabled the owner to live in the back and run the business from the front.
I had to demonstrate my cleaner between customers to the man and wife who owned the store. I spent a good part of the morning talking to the couple and just felt it in my bones they wanted to buy the vacuum.
I went to lunch and came back in the afternoon to continue trying to get them to buy. It finally came out. They had just bought a new meat cutter and were concerned about having to make more monthly payments. As is the case many times, they were embarrassed about not having enough money. Consequently, it took most of the day to make that revelation.
The solution was simple. I told the man to run a want ad in his local newspaper offering to wash cars, including a thorough cleaning inside (using the attachments provided with the cleaner I was about to sell him). This was something new (upright cleaners did not have attachments). And he could vacuum cars while his wife waited on customers. And the income would make the payments on the cleaner. The idea struck a chord and they signed up immediately.
As I illustrated earlier, the poorer parts of town were better for contract sales. But I learned the opposite of that one day when I knocked on the door of a fine looking home on the outskirts of town. It turned out to be a fox farm. They raised the animals and then made fur stoles selling for $150 each - a lot of money in those days.
My point in telling this story is that these people were obviously more experienced in business than I was and would not be incensed over me rounding off the price as I had offered on my first sale.
The lady I demonstrated to thought the cleaner was great but she said she had just bought another brand and her husband would “kill” her if she bought another one.
However, if I would be willing to trade a fur stole worth $150 (according to her) for my $99.50 cleaner, we could make a deal. Since my commission was $35 that meant I was getting the stole for $64.50. I agreed to this very astute (I thought) deal.
The problem was I didn’t have the $64.50 to pay the wholesale cost of the cleaner. I had just been selling enough to pay expenses on the road. I called Mother and even though she was smart enough to know I had probably made a bad deal, she wired me the money and I sent her the fur stole.
Now tell me this. Where does a middle class working woman of modest means wear a fox fur stole, even if she had the other clothes to go with it? That was something I didn’t think about. Years later, in helping move Mother from one apartment to another, I discovered the stole in a closet, undoubtedly unworn since I had sent it to her.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Summer Close Out
Another key to selling was hammered in to us. That was to close the sale. So many salesmen do a terrific job of demonstrating, convincing the customer to buy et cetera, but fail to ask for the sale.
One older salesman I was with one evening did not follow that advice, but he did it intentionally. This guy was truly a high pressure style salesman. His standard practice was to take the customer into the bedroom to demonstrate the cleaner. He would show that the filter was brand new (we used a cleanable cloth filter), pull the bedcovers off the bed and vacuum the mattress. He would then shake out the dirt on the mattress and say, “See what you’ve been sleeping on!” After the demo, he would then clean up the dirt and re-make the bed.
Many times this tactic would sell the unit. However, this night he encountered a bachelor and did his normal routine. When he got to the dirty mattress bit, the response from the man was, “I don’t give a ‘blankity bank’ what’s on my bed as long as I can sleep.”
It made our man so mad he pulled the sheets over the dirt, made the bed, packed up his cleaner and left the house.
Because of my youthful look I was able to get into many homes the older men couldn’t, but my sales ratio was not great. I spent many Sunday afternoons working because I had not sold my quota during the week. Even if we had done well, the crew leader would send us out again. The great salesmen, he said, keep pushing when they are on a roll.
We headed home through Yellowstone National Park and headed for Red Lodge, Montana. We stopped at a gas station for directions and the attendant said it was about 60 miles, “30 up and 30 down.” He was so right!
The fellow driving our car was experienced in mountain driving and he knew his passengers were scared to death. To this day, I dread traveling mountain roads, even wide interstates.
I ended the summer just making my keep, plus the “great gift” to my mother that only cost her $64.50! The experience of the summer was invaluable to me and my folks didn’t have to feed me for three months. I got to see six western states and learned many selling tools that I used later in life.
Another key to selling was hammered in to us. That was to close the sale. So many salesmen do a terrific job of demonstrating, convincing the customer to buy et cetera, but fail to ask for the sale.
One older salesman I was with one evening did not follow that advice, but he did it intentionally. This guy was truly a high pressure style salesman. His standard practice was to take the customer into the bedroom to demonstrate the cleaner. He would show that the filter was brand new (we used a cleanable cloth filter), pull the bedcovers off the bed and vacuum the mattress. He would then shake out the dirt on the mattress and say, “See what you’ve been sleeping on!” After the demo, he would then clean up the dirt and re-make the bed.
Many times this tactic would sell the unit. However, this night he encountered a bachelor and did his normal routine. When he got to the dirty mattress bit, the response from the man was, “I don’t give a ‘blankity bank’ what’s on my bed as long as I can sleep.”
It made our man so mad he pulled the sheets over the dirt, made the bed, packed up his cleaner and left the house.
Because of my youthful look I was able to get into many homes the older men couldn’t, but my sales ratio was not great. I spent many Sunday afternoons working because I had not sold my quota during the week. Even if we had done well, the crew leader would send us out again. The great salesmen, he said, keep pushing when they are on a roll.
We headed home through Yellowstone National Park and headed for Red Lodge, Montana. We stopped at a gas station for directions and the attendant said it was about 60 miles, “30 up and 30 down.” He was so right!
The fellow driving our car was experienced in mountain driving and he knew his passengers were scared to death. To this day, I dread traveling mountain roads, even wide interstates.
I ended the summer just making my keep, plus the “great gift” to my mother that only cost her $64.50! The experience of the summer was invaluable to me and my folks didn’t have to feed me for three months. I got to see six western states and learned many selling tools that I used later in life.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Double, Double Toil, and Trouble
As we had planned, I thought I was on schedule to graduate from the university in three and a half years. However, I found I was three credit hours short for an English major. I had enough for the journalism certificate but I needed the English for not only a double major but the 125 hours total to graduate.
Consequently my advisor recommended I take a course in comparative English literature. It seemed like a good idea until I went to class and found it was composed of senior English majors with loads of prerequisite courses that I had not taken. We were required to compare Chaucer with modern-day authors, for instance.
Needless to say I was lost and after I got a flat zero on the first paper, the instructor suggested I drop the course. I had also embarrassed myself in class one day when the professor asked me to cite a poem having to do with some religious belief. My answer was Invictus, one of the most sacrilegious poems I could have picked. One of its lines denies the existence of God. “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” That pretty well settled my fate in this class.
What to do? I dropped the course but it was too late to pick up another. My advisor suggested I take a correspondence course. So I did. A full time student was I, sending in weekly lessons on my correspondence course in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
The weekly routine became boring and I got further and further behind in my course work. As a result, the last couple weeks of the semester found me in the library pounding out answers to questions on the three witches and other fine points of Macbeth. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
I was not all that great in my knowledge of Shakespeare but my journalistic training stood me in good stead. There is probably more written about what others thought Shakespeare meant than any other author so material was easily found in the library. I simply paraphrased what several other experts wrote to answer my questions on the various hidden meanings in the text. Because of the intensity of the study, I did quite well on the answers and got one of my better grades in that course.
As we had planned, I thought I was on schedule to graduate from the university in three and a half years. However, I found I was three credit hours short for an English major. I had enough for the journalism certificate but I needed the English for not only a double major but the 125 hours total to graduate.
Consequently my advisor recommended I take a course in comparative English literature. It seemed like a good idea until I went to class and found it was composed of senior English majors with loads of prerequisite courses that I had not taken. We were required to compare Chaucer with modern-day authors, for instance.
Needless to say I was lost and after I got a flat zero on the first paper, the instructor suggested I drop the course. I had also embarrassed myself in class one day when the professor asked me to cite a poem having to do with some religious belief. My answer was Invictus, one of the most sacrilegious poems I could have picked. One of its lines denies the existence of God. “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” That pretty well settled my fate in this class.
What to do? I dropped the course but it was too late to pick up another. My advisor suggested I take a correspondence course. So I did. A full time student was I, sending in weekly lessons on my correspondence course in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
The weekly routine became boring and I got further and further behind in my course work. As a result, the last couple weeks of the semester found me in the library pounding out answers to questions on the three witches and other fine points of Macbeth. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
I was not all that great in my knowledge of Shakespeare but my journalistic training stood me in good stead. There is probably more written about what others thought Shakespeare meant than any other author so material was easily found in the library. I simply paraphrased what several other experts wrote to answer my questions on the various hidden meanings in the text. Because of the intensity of the study, I did quite well on the answers and got one of my better grades in that course.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Swindler
As can be seen, procrastination was one of my finer attributes and it nearly became my downfall as that last semester drew to a close.
Many classes in the senior year do not meet regularly but simply require a paper to be written on the course subject. History of Journalism and Law of the Press were two such courses. As usual, I waited until late in the semester to begin work on these two projects. In fact, I had finished all my final exams in the other courses and needed only these two papers to be completed before I could graduate and go home.
I made it through the History of Journalism but I just couldn’t bring myself to start on the other. Several days passed and I finally hit on a devious plan that I would not recommend to others but feel compelled to reveal at this point in my life.
The director of the School of Journalism taught both these courses. His name was Dr. William Swindler (an apt name for what I am about to tell you ). Journalism fraternity pins (Sigma Delta Chi) for seniors were to be ordered at his office.
I took my completed History of Journalism paper to the office and gave it to his secretary. (I knew Dr. Swindler would be in class and out of the office at that time). I then went to my room and wrote a post card.
“Dear Dr. Swindler,” it said. “I left my fraternity pin order with your secretary and also handed in BOTH (my emphasis here, not on the original card) my term papers. Please send my pin to et cetera, et cetera.”
My plan, of course, was for the secretary to be blamed for misplacing my second paper (which I never wrote).
Since it was a January graduation, no formal ceremonies were held and seniors simply went to the administration office to pick up their diplomas. Not knowing whether my ruse had worked, I obviously was apprehensive when I walked in to get my “sheepskin.” It was there and I sighed a big sigh of relief, packed my bags and went home, a full fledged graduate of the University of Nebraska.
Several weeks later, the grades came out and on the line where the mark for Law of the Press was supposed to be, was a big fat “incomplete.” Dr. Swindler did not buy the scam but he allowed it to pass and my diploma was saved. I never inquired how I was able to graduate three hours short of the required 125. Maybe I was expected to make up that course but I never looked back. As most graduates know, no one ever asks to see your diploma anyway, unless you claim to have matriculated at Yale or Harvard. Perhaps if I had run for public office someone might have checked it out.
In following years at press conventions or alumni affairs when I happened to run into Dr. Swindler, he never mentioned the episode and I surely didn’t either. This was not one of my finest moments.
As can be seen, procrastination was one of my finer attributes and it nearly became my downfall as that last semester drew to a close.
Many classes in the senior year do not meet regularly but simply require a paper to be written on the course subject. History of Journalism and Law of the Press were two such courses. As usual, I waited until late in the semester to begin work on these two projects. In fact, I had finished all my final exams in the other courses and needed only these two papers to be completed before I could graduate and go home.
I made it through the History of Journalism but I just couldn’t bring myself to start on the other. Several days passed and I finally hit on a devious plan that I would not recommend to others but feel compelled to reveal at this point in my life.
The director of the School of Journalism taught both these courses. His name was Dr. William Swindler (an apt name for what I am about to tell you ). Journalism fraternity pins (Sigma Delta Chi) for seniors were to be ordered at his office.
I took my completed History of Journalism paper to the office and gave it to his secretary. (I knew Dr. Swindler would be in class and out of the office at that time). I then went to my room and wrote a post card.
“Dear Dr. Swindler,” it said. “I left my fraternity pin order with your secretary and also handed in BOTH (my emphasis here, not on the original card) my term papers. Please send my pin to et cetera, et cetera.”
My plan, of course, was for the secretary to be blamed for misplacing my second paper (which I never wrote).
Since it was a January graduation, no formal ceremonies were held and seniors simply went to the administration office to pick up their diplomas. Not knowing whether my ruse had worked, I obviously was apprehensive when I walked in to get my “sheepskin.” It was there and I sighed a big sigh of relief, packed my bags and went home, a full fledged graduate of the University of Nebraska.
Several weeks later, the grades came out and on the line where the mark for Law of the Press was supposed to be, was a big fat “incomplete.” Dr. Swindler did not buy the scam but he allowed it to pass and my diploma was saved. I never inquired how I was able to graduate three hours short of the required 125. Maybe I was expected to make up that course but I never looked back. As most graduates know, no one ever asks to see your diploma anyway, unless you claim to have matriculated at Yale or Harvard. Perhaps if I had run for public office someone might have checked it out.
In following years at press conventions or alumni affairs when I happened to run into Dr. Swindler, he never mentioned the episode and I surely didn’t either. This was not one of my finest moments.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Herding Stringers
By this time my folks had moved to Omaha where they took jobs at the Council Bluffs Nonpareil, a daily newspaper with a union shop. My dad was employed as a printer (compositor) and Mother as a linotype operator.
They had never belonged to a union and it took some getting used to. The plant was not air conditioned but windows could be opened to take advantage of any breeze. One day a gust of wind blew out the flame on Mother’s gas- which heats the metal that is molded into type. She got up to re-light the pot and almost got fired. That was a machinist’s job and the union steward made sure the rules were followed. Some 30 to 40 minutes later the machinist got to her problem and corrected it. The union feather bedding was kept intact but it put Mom well behind in her daily output of type.
Having graduated at mid school year, the regular recruiting of students didn’t take place but I did get an offer of a short term job at the Custer County Chief in Broken Bow, Nebraska. The title was news editor but it consisted mostly of editing country correspondents’ copy from some 100 “stringers” in this western Nebraska trade territory, which stretched nearly 100 miles into the sand hills.
The regular news editor was spending his time working on a special section called the Hereford Edition. In that cattle country, advertising could be sold and stories written in a section that dealt exclusively with Hereford cattle.
Most of the copy I dealt with was the “Grandma Jones was feted at her 90th birthday by her family” type of material but some got more interesting.
One correspondent related all the details of a pinochle party, including who won high, low and what was served for lunch. At the end, as if it were an afterthought and the writer questioned whether it should even be included, she mentioned that during the evening an explosion in the house blew out the windows in the kitchen. Hard news was not easily recognized by the stringers.
In another situation, the stringer had the good sense to call in a possible murder. I drove nearly 100 miles to find out the death was ruled a suicide but it showed me the immensity of the territory covered by a country newspaper in western Nebraska.
By this time my folks had moved to Omaha where they took jobs at the Council Bluffs Nonpareil, a daily newspaper with a union shop. My dad was employed as a printer (compositor) and Mother as a linotype operator.
They had never belonged to a union and it took some getting used to. The plant was not air conditioned but windows could be opened to take advantage of any breeze. One day a gust of wind blew out the flame on Mother’s gas- which heats the metal that is molded into type. She got up to re-light the pot and almost got fired. That was a machinist’s job and the union steward made sure the rules were followed. Some 30 to 40 minutes later the machinist got to her problem and corrected it. The union feather bedding was kept intact but it put Mom well behind in her daily output of type.
Having graduated at mid school year, the regular recruiting of students didn’t take place but I did get an offer of a short term job at the Custer County Chief in Broken Bow, Nebraska. The title was news editor but it consisted mostly of editing country correspondents’ copy from some 100 “stringers” in this western Nebraska trade territory, which stretched nearly 100 miles into the sand hills.
The regular news editor was spending his time working on a special section called the Hereford Edition. In that cattle country, advertising could be sold and stories written in a section that dealt exclusively with Hereford cattle.
Most of the copy I dealt with was the “Grandma Jones was feted at her 90th birthday by her family” type of material but some got more interesting.
One correspondent related all the details of a pinochle party, including who won high, low and what was served for lunch. At the end, as if it were an afterthought and the writer questioned whether it should even be included, she mentioned that during the evening an explosion in the house blew out the windows in the kitchen. Hard news was not easily recognized by the stringers.
In another situation, the stringer had the good sense to call in a possible murder. I drove nearly 100 miles to find out the death was ruled a suicide but it showed me the immensity of the territory covered by a country newspaper in western Nebraska.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
“Everybody in Town Knows What Happened”
The Broken Bow job lasted only about six weeks but I got a call to edit the Stanton Register while the publisher went on a Navy cruise sponsored by the National Editorial Association.
Stanton was a lot different from Broken Bow. It was in eastern Nebraska in a small county of less than 4,000 population about 20 miles wide and 30 miles long with only two towns.
For a 21-year-old just out of college it was good experience, in more ways than one, both personal and professional.
As was the custom on Wednesdays after the paper was put in the mail, some of the newspaper employees stopped for a beer and a pool game at one of the local taverns. On one such day, being single and not expected any place but the restaurant for supper, I stayed a little longer after the other guys had gone on home to their wives.
With no supper on my stomach and an excess of beer, I left the tavern in less than desirable condition. To make a long story short, I woke up the next day and did not remember what had happened the night before.
I walked out of my rooming house but couldn’t find my car. As I walked to work I went by the Chevrolet garage and saw my 1937 Plymouth coupe in the parking lot with two front fenders dented in.
I was badly in need of a cup of coffee. So before going to work, I stopped at a café, only to find the boss (he had since come back from his Navy trip but kept me on for the time being) and the advertising manager.
The only comment the publisher had for me was, “You know who’s going to write the story?”
I still didn’t know for sure what had happened but I found out later I had left the tavern, cut an intersection too short and ran into a building. Witnesses said I backed up and hit the structure several times trying to get around and finally abandoned the car.
The local town marshal stopped at the shop later that morning. “Ken,” he said, “Nearly everybody in town knows what happened so I’m going to have to charge you with something. Since I wasn’t there and it is now a day later, I’ll just make it careless driving and let it go at that.”
I went to court and paid my fine, happy it was not a more serious charge. It did turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Normally a careless driving charge would have just rated one or two lines in the weekly court news. Since I was the news editor, however, I decided to write a longer story with a small headline so I could show the paper played no favorites. I carried the clipping from that story in my billfold for a long time. When someone begged to have a story kept out of the paper, I would produce the clipping and say, “I couldn’t do it for myself, how can I do it for you?”
The above incident points up a recurring problem in the community newspaper business. To have your transgressions published for all to see is difficult to accept, despite the fact that in a small town everybody knows it anyway.
There is a common misconception that influence or money can keep a particular news story from being printed. In my experience, this has never happened where I had any authority nor has it been a practice in other places where I have worked.
When I was at Stanton, and after Jim Cornwell, the publisher of the paper, came back from his Navy trip, a young fellow came into the shop and asked Jim to withhold a story about him being picked up on a driving-while-intoxicated charge.
The man happened to be the son of a quite prominent and wealthy farmer in the county and he was used to getting his way. Jim explained that, once in the court system, all charges and results are printed. There are no exceptions.
When he wouldn’t take no for an answer, Jim finally got mad and said, “Look, I’ve got $50,000 invested in this newspaper. You lay $25,000 on the counter right now and you can have a say in our policy. Otherwise, get the hell out!”
The Broken Bow job lasted only about six weeks but I got a call to edit the Stanton Register while the publisher went on a Navy cruise sponsored by the National Editorial Association.
Stanton was a lot different from Broken Bow. It was in eastern Nebraska in a small county of less than 4,000 population about 20 miles wide and 30 miles long with only two towns.
For a 21-year-old just out of college it was good experience, in more ways than one, both personal and professional.
As was the custom on Wednesdays after the paper was put in the mail, some of the newspaper employees stopped for a beer and a pool game at one of the local taverns. On one such day, being single and not expected any place but the restaurant for supper, I stayed a little longer after the other guys had gone on home to their wives.
With no supper on my stomach and an excess of beer, I left the tavern in less than desirable condition. To make a long story short, I woke up the next day and did not remember what had happened the night before.
I walked out of my rooming house but couldn’t find my car. As I walked to work I went by the Chevrolet garage and saw my 1937 Plymouth coupe in the parking lot with two front fenders dented in.
I was badly in need of a cup of coffee. So before going to work, I stopped at a café, only to find the boss (he had since come back from his Navy trip but kept me on for the time being) and the advertising manager.
The only comment the publisher had for me was, “You know who’s going to write the story?”
I still didn’t know for sure what had happened but I found out later I had left the tavern, cut an intersection too short and ran into a building. Witnesses said I backed up and hit the structure several times trying to get around and finally abandoned the car.
The local town marshal stopped at the shop later that morning. “Ken,” he said, “Nearly everybody in town knows what happened so I’m going to have to charge you with something. Since I wasn’t there and it is now a day later, I’ll just make it careless driving and let it go at that.”
I went to court and paid my fine, happy it was not a more serious charge. It did turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Normally a careless driving charge would have just rated one or two lines in the weekly court news. Since I was the news editor, however, I decided to write a longer story with a small headline so I could show the paper played no favorites. I carried the clipping from that story in my billfold for a long time. When someone begged to have a story kept out of the paper, I would produce the clipping and say, “I couldn’t do it for myself, how can I do it for you?”
The above incident points up a recurring problem in the community newspaper business. To have your transgressions published for all to see is difficult to accept, despite the fact that in a small town everybody knows it anyway.
There is a common misconception that influence or money can keep a particular news story from being printed. In my experience, this has never happened where I had any authority nor has it been a practice in other places where I have worked.
When I was at Stanton, and after Jim Cornwell, the publisher of the paper, came back from his Navy trip, a young fellow came into the shop and asked Jim to withhold a story about him being picked up on a driving-while-intoxicated charge.
The man happened to be the son of a quite prominent and wealthy farmer in the county and he was used to getting his way. Jim explained that, once in the court system, all charges and results are printed. There are no exceptions.
When he wouldn’t take no for an answer, Jim finally got mad and said, “Look, I’ve got $50,000 invested in this newspaper. You lay $25,000 on the counter right now and you can have a say in our policy. Otherwise, get the hell out!”
Friday, March 09, 2007
Run Over by the Wagon
I enjoyed those few months in Stanton, but by that time I had received my draft notice and I knew I would have to go into the service in October so I was trying to savor my time while I could.
It was summer and in those days all communities had a town baseball team. Richie Ashburn of Tilden and Wahoo Sam Crawford were products of that system in Nebraska. Having done some dramatic work in high school and college, I fancied myself as a sports announcer. So I handled the mike at most Sunday afternoon games.
I don’t remember any memorable games, but I do recall a trick I played that could have cost me a black eye. One hot August Sunday the visiting team had an overweight catcher who made it to first base on what most players would have stretched into a double or triple. He was obviously laboring in the heat when he trotted to second as the next batter walked.
When the runner reached the mid-point between first and second, a dog walked by me in the grandstand panting in the heat. I put the mike to the dog’s mouth and the resulting “pant, pant, pant” was transferred in the crowd’s mind to the laboring runner. The player glared up at me but his anger must have subsided because he didn’t seek me out after the game. Maybe his team won.
I had one other experience, again involving alcohol, that has shaped my actions over the years.
A printer was employed at the paper who Jim had rescued from “demon rum” and kept on the wagon for a number of months. Perhaps because his mentor was gone and a 21-year-old was in charge, the printer fell off the wagon.
I came back to the shop about 8 p.m. on Wednesday after the paper had been mailed and found our printer sitting there drinking peach brandy. Why that particular variety of booze appealed to a recovering alcoholic I don’t know, but in my young and inexperienced mind, I thought I would use psychology on the old fellow to get him back on the wagon.
I thought if I would be a good fellow and have drink with him, I could cajole him and get him home without further damage. It didn’t exactly work that way. I was an hour late to work the next day with a terrific hangover and the printer didn’t show up for three days!
I enjoyed those few months in Stanton, but by that time I had received my draft notice and I knew I would have to go into the service in October so I was trying to savor my time while I could.
It was summer and in those days all communities had a town baseball team. Richie Ashburn of Tilden and Wahoo Sam Crawford were products of that system in Nebraska. Having done some dramatic work in high school and college, I fancied myself as a sports announcer. So I handled the mike at most Sunday afternoon games.
I don’t remember any memorable games, but I do recall a trick I played that could have cost me a black eye. One hot August Sunday the visiting team had an overweight catcher who made it to first base on what most players would have stretched into a double or triple. He was obviously laboring in the heat when he trotted to second as the next batter walked.
When the runner reached the mid-point between first and second, a dog walked by me in the grandstand panting in the heat. I put the mike to the dog’s mouth and the resulting “pant, pant, pant” was transferred in the crowd’s mind to the laboring runner. The player glared up at me but his anger must have subsided because he didn’t seek me out after the game. Maybe his team won.
I had one other experience, again involving alcohol, that has shaped my actions over the years.
A printer was employed at the paper who Jim had rescued from “demon rum” and kept on the wagon for a number of months. Perhaps because his mentor was gone and a 21-year-old was in charge, the printer fell off the wagon.
I came back to the shop about 8 p.m. on Wednesday after the paper had been mailed and found our printer sitting there drinking peach brandy. Why that particular variety of booze appealed to a recovering alcoholic I don’t know, but in my young and inexperienced mind, I thought I would use psychology on the old fellow to get him back on the wagon.
I thought if I would be a good fellow and have drink with him, I could cajole him and get him home without further damage. It didn’t exactly work that way. I was an hour late to work the next day with a terrific hangover and the printer didn’t show up for three days!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Walking the Plank
With only a couple months before having to leave for military service, I moved to Omaha and went to work as a common laborer on a construction job at the Mead Ordnance Plant. We were not told, of course, but the rumor was that the project being built was a world-wide transmitter, kind of a spy instrument for the military or CIA. All we could see was a hole in the ground and the laying of a foundation for a building.
I was paired with an older fellow who had worked construction as a laborer for a number of years. We were assigned the middle of a three-tiered rig spading dirt from the bottom of the hole. The major excavation had been made with a power shovel but the clean up had to be done by hand.
It was very hard work. The pair on the bottom tier threw the dirt to our platform, we moved it on to the next and it was then scooped on out. Two heavily muscled high school boys were on the bottom tier passing the dirt on to us. They apparently were out to show the skinny college graduate and an old man how fast they could work
As the dirt began to pile up, my partner, with a sly grin, said, “Just let them go. Keep scooping at a steady pace and don’t worry about those guys down below. I’ll guarantee you by noon they will be so pooped they won’t come back to work.”
My partner was exactly right. The kids went to lunch and never came back. Lessons can be learned from many quarters. This fellow, with probably no more than an eighth grade education taught me steady, hard work will get the job done and help you survive the long haul.
This job also gave me my first look at government red tape and how companies can take advantage of cost-plus contracts.
We had completed pouring cement for some supporting columns and the next day a government inspector came to the job site and asked if steel reinforcing had been placed inside the columns. The foreman assured him it had been but the inspector simply replied, “I wasn’t here to see it. Tear them out and let me know when you plan to pour them over so I can observe.”
The cost of doing the work over was bad enough, but the boondoggle continued when the foreman instructed the men to pull the columns down. Instead of taking a large derrick to take the columns away, we were told to break them up with a jack hammer and haul the pieces in a pickup truck to the dump.
So instead of about a half hour’s work with a derrick, two men took two days to break up the cement and haul it away. This was another learning process for me. I had never been on the working end of jack hammer and my 120 pound frame was not exactly suited to the project. After a half day of trying to manhandle a power hammer, I finally learned that the machine does the work while the operator simply guides it. I went to bed that night with my body still shaking from the motion of that jack hammer.
I was given another job that found my size and lack of experience quite a detriment. This one consisted of propelling a rubber-tired wheel barrow full of sloshing cement along a quivering narrow plank 30 feet in the air. (It was for the roof of the building). I couldn’t handle it and I dumped the cement in the wrong place only half way across. The mistake wasn’t fatal. Workers quickly moved in and shoveled the cement to its proper place, but the foreman found me another place to work.
With only a couple months before having to leave for military service, I moved to Omaha and went to work as a common laborer on a construction job at the Mead Ordnance Plant. We were not told, of course, but the rumor was that the project being built was a world-wide transmitter, kind of a spy instrument for the military or CIA. All we could see was a hole in the ground and the laying of a foundation for a building.
I was paired with an older fellow who had worked construction as a laborer for a number of years. We were assigned the middle of a three-tiered rig spading dirt from the bottom of the hole. The major excavation had been made with a power shovel but the clean up had to be done by hand.
It was very hard work. The pair on the bottom tier threw the dirt to our platform, we moved it on to the next and it was then scooped on out. Two heavily muscled high school boys were on the bottom tier passing the dirt on to us. They apparently were out to show the skinny college graduate and an old man how fast they could work
As the dirt began to pile up, my partner, with a sly grin, said, “Just let them go. Keep scooping at a steady pace and don’t worry about those guys down below. I’ll guarantee you by noon they will be so pooped they won’t come back to work.”
My partner was exactly right. The kids went to lunch and never came back. Lessons can be learned from many quarters. This fellow, with probably no more than an eighth grade education taught me steady, hard work will get the job done and help you survive the long haul.
This job also gave me my first look at government red tape and how companies can take advantage of cost-plus contracts.
We had completed pouring cement for some supporting columns and the next day a government inspector came to the job site and asked if steel reinforcing had been placed inside the columns. The foreman assured him it had been but the inspector simply replied, “I wasn’t here to see it. Tear them out and let me know when you plan to pour them over so I can observe.”
The cost of doing the work over was bad enough, but the boondoggle continued when the foreman instructed the men to pull the columns down. Instead of taking a large derrick to take the columns away, we were told to break them up with a jack hammer and haul the pieces in a pickup truck to the dump.
So instead of about a half hour’s work with a derrick, two men took two days to break up the cement and haul it away. This was another learning process for me. I had never been on the working end of jack hammer and my 120 pound frame was not exactly suited to the project. After a half day of trying to manhandle a power hammer, I finally learned that the machine does the work while the operator simply guides it. I went to bed that night with my body still shaking from the motion of that jack hammer.
I was given another job that found my size and lack of experience quite a detriment. This one consisted of propelling a rubber-tired wheel barrow full of sloshing cement along a quivering narrow plank 30 feet in the air. (It was for the roof of the building). I couldn’t handle it and I dumped the cement in the wrong place only half way across. The mistake wasn’t fatal. Workers quickly moved in and shoveled the cement to its proper place, but the foreman found me another place to work.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
A Drink with My Dad
Late that summer Daddy complained of a cold and Aunt Ruth, who was in charge of the pharmacy at Lutheran Hospital in Omaha, said he should see a doctor. With her connections at the hospital, she got him in to see a physician, even though it was Sunday. The doctor examined him and suggested he go to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.
Since I would have to quit my job soon to go to the Army, it was decided that I should drive Daddy to Minnesota. At that point we were not certain the seriousness of the sickness so it was logical for me to make the drive and leave Mother at home to continue working.
It was a bittersweet time for me. Daddy was obviously concerned about his health but it was also the first time we had really ever had time to be together. I was quite surprised when he suggested we stop at a bar for a drink on the way out of town. My dad was not a heavy drinker and I don’t think I had ever had a drink in front of him since I had just turned 21 my previous birthday. So it was an awkward moment for both of us. I don’t remember what we spoke of but I do remember I saw my dad in a different light than I had ever seen before. Perhaps he knew his fate and was more open because of it. I don’t know. But like many father-son relationships, the understanding between them comes mostly too late.
We got to Rochester and Daddy was quickly diagnosed with cancer of the lung. The doctors said removal of the lung was the only option in an attempt to save his life. I called Mother, of course, but in the end I had to sign the papers agreeing to the operation.
Mother caught the first bus to Rochester and got there just in time to be with Daddy as he died. The doctors said his body could not take the removal of a lung. Cancer treatment is different today but the causes were certainly suspected. His nurse said she had no doubt but what his two-pack-a-day smoking habit greatly contributed to his demise. This was in 1951, 40 years before smoking became a major health issue.
Getting home from Rochester, the funeral and other daily activities are still a blur.
Late that summer Daddy complained of a cold and Aunt Ruth, who was in charge of the pharmacy at Lutheran Hospital in Omaha, said he should see a doctor. With her connections at the hospital, she got him in to see a physician, even though it was Sunday. The doctor examined him and suggested he go to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.
Since I would have to quit my job soon to go to the Army, it was decided that I should drive Daddy to Minnesota. At that point we were not certain the seriousness of the sickness so it was logical for me to make the drive and leave Mother at home to continue working.
It was a bittersweet time for me. Daddy was obviously concerned about his health but it was also the first time we had really ever had time to be together. I was quite surprised when he suggested we stop at a bar for a drink on the way out of town. My dad was not a heavy drinker and I don’t think I had ever had a drink in front of him since I had just turned 21 my previous birthday. So it was an awkward moment for both of us. I don’t remember what we spoke of but I do remember I saw my dad in a different light than I had ever seen before. Perhaps he knew his fate and was more open because of it. I don’t know. But like many father-son relationships, the understanding between them comes mostly too late.
We got to Rochester and Daddy was quickly diagnosed with cancer of the lung. The doctors said removal of the lung was the only option in an attempt to save his life. I called Mother, of course, but in the end I had to sign the papers agreeing to the operation.
Mother caught the first bus to Rochester and got there just in time to be with Daddy as he died. The doctors said his body could not take the removal of a lung. Cancer treatment is different today but the causes were certainly suspected. His nurse said she had no doubt but what his two-pack-a-day smoking habit greatly contributed to his demise. This was in 1951, 40 years before smoking became a major health issue.
Getting home from Rochester, the funeral and other daily activities are still a blur.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Induction
I got my draft notice in October, 1951 and was inducted at Fort Omaha. We stayed overnight at the old Rome Hotel and were shipped out the next morning to Camp Crowder, Missouri.
We were there for about two weeks, getting shots, physicals examinations and finally assignment to basic training.
By this time it was early November and my strongest recollection was how cold it was in the barracks where they sent us for our immunization shots. The building was empty except for a few benches along the walls, which we were not allowed to use, of course. We stood in line with nothing on but our under shorts. A medic stood on each side of the line jabbing a needle in both arms with the desired inoculation.
There was a big farm boy ahead of me in line and as we approached the medics, he would slip out of line and let the next G.I. pass on. Finally, he was the only one left in the line.
The medic said, “What’s the matter, big boy?”
“I’ve never gotten a shot before,” he said.
“That’s okay,” replied the orderly. “This is the first time I’ve ever given any!”
Whereupon the medics hit him in both arms with their needles and he promptly passed out and fell to the floor.
I got my draft notice in October, 1951 and was inducted at Fort Omaha. We stayed overnight at the old Rome Hotel and were shipped out the next morning to Camp Crowder, Missouri.
We were there for about two weeks, getting shots, physicals examinations and finally assignment to basic training.
By this time it was early November and my strongest recollection was how cold it was in the barracks where they sent us for our immunization shots. The building was empty except for a few benches along the walls, which we were not allowed to use, of course. We stood in line with nothing on but our under shorts. A medic stood on each side of the line jabbing a needle in both arms with the desired inoculation.
There was a big farm boy ahead of me in line and as we approached the medics, he would slip out of line and let the next G.I. pass on. Finally, he was the only one left in the line.
The medic said, “What’s the matter, big boy?”
“I’ve never gotten a shot before,” he said.
“That’s okay,” replied the orderly. “This is the first time I’ve ever given any!”
Whereupon the medics hit him in both arms with their needles and he promptly passed out and fell to the floor.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Scofield Barracks
We were called to an assembly hall one morning and the officer in charge asked how many of us would like to take basic training where the average temperature was 65 degrees and the scenery was like something from a movie.
Most of us were skeptical, of course. Even at this early stage in our military careers we were hesitant to volunteer for anything. But some of us couldn’t resist and found out our destination would be Scofield Barracks, Hawaii. It’s hard to believe but they didn’t get enough volunteers and the quota had to be filled out with the unwilling. These were mostly married men who knew their families would not be able to visit them that far away.
My one and only assignment to the dreaded KP (kitchen police) came at Camp Crowder. We were busily cracking some 40 or 50 dozen hen fruits for scrambled eggs at 4 a.m. one day when we were told to go back to our barracks and get ready to ship out at 5 a.m. We obviously didn’t get any sleep that night but we made up for it on a troop train the next day headed for Camp Stoneman, California.
We had to lay around for a few days getting processed and for many of us, born and reared in sheltered Midwest homes, it was our first glimpse of a world for which we had little knowledge. The sophistication by even the youngest from this new world exhibited itself one Sunday morning when several boys no older than ten came to the barracks selling newspapers.
We were not really concerned with current affairs and some of the guys started giving the paper boys a hard time.
One said, “What do I want with a newspaper? I can’t read.”
The retort was instant. “You can smell, can’t you? It’s all bullshit anyway.”
It was also a first major encounter with someone from a different race. I was in a friendly penny-ante poker game when the bet was not called by anybody and the opener hauled in the pot without showing his hand.
A black fellow in the game asked what the winning hand was and the response was standard.
“If you want to see the hand, you have to call,” answered the winner.
The black man took offense at that and we had to restrain him. His inexperience in poker did not help our opinion of his race. That bad early impression was mitigated later by more positive encounters. My learning experience has been that no matter what your race, every individual should be judged on his actions, not his color.
We were called to an assembly hall one morning and the officer in charge asked how many of us would like to take basic training where the average temperature was 65 degrees and the scenery was like something from a movie.
Most of us were skeptical, of course. Even at this early stage in our military careers we were hesitant to volunteer for anything. But some of us couldn’t resist and found out our destination would be Scofield Barracks, Hawaii. It’s hard to believe but they didn’t get enough volunteers and the quota had to be filled out with the unwilling. These were mostly married men who knew their families would not be able to visit them that far away.
My one and only assignment to the dreaded KP (kitchen police) came at Camp Crowder. We were busily cracking some 40 or 50 dozen hen fruits for scrambled eggs at 4 a.m. one day when we were told to go back to our barracks and get ready to ship out at 5 a.m. We obviously didn’t get any sleep that night but we made up for it on a troop train the next day headed for Camp Stoneman, California.
We had to lay around for a few days getting processed and for many of us, born and reared in sheltered Midwest homes, it was our first glimpse of a world for which we had little knowledge. The sophistication by even the youngest from this new world exhibited itself one Sunday morning when several boys no older than ten came to the barracks selling newspapers.
We were not really concerned with current affairs and some of the guys started giving the paper boys a hard time.
One said, “What do I want with a newspaper? I can’t read.”
The retort was instant. “You can smell, can’t you? It’s all bullshit anyway.”
It was also a first major encounter with someone from a different race. I was in a friendly penny-ante poker game when the bet was not called by anybody and the opener hauled in the pot without showing his hand.
A black fellow in the game asked what the winning hand was and the response was standard.
“If you want to see the hand, you have to call,” answered the winner.
The black man took offense at that and we had to restrain him. His inexperience in poker did not help our opinion of his race. That bad early impression was mitigated later by more positive encounters. My learning experience has been that no matter what your race, every individual should be judged on his actions, not his color.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
A Bud in Hawaii
We boarded a troop ship, the Sulton, for a 14-day trip to Hawaii. The 3,000 troops were much like me, never near an ocean, let alone aboard a ship
The result was that 90 per cent of the troops were seasick for the first three or four days at sea. That meant the other ten per cent had to pull the few duties not regularly assigned to the Navy crew running the ship. For some reason, I didn’t succumb to seasickness and got assigned as a telephone watch talker. That amounted to standing on the bridge at night looking for ships that radar might not pick up, thus avoiding collisions. Being able to see how a huge ship like that was run, and being a part of it, was thrilling duty for a young non-sailor like me.
The other good part was that the chow lines were nearly empty and those not sick were fed like kings. Eventually most of the troops got well and the usual waiting line for food resumed, but the telephone watch talking job continued for the two week cruise.
Another surprise came as we docked in Honolulu. Bud Farr, my friend from Murray, had enlisted in the Navy some time earlier and was with Military Sea Transport Service (MSTS). He actually got sea pay because his job took him out in the harbor at a lighthouse each day.
His mother and mine corresponded, so Bud knew I was coming to Hawaii for basic training. He had access to shipping logs and spent weeks scanning the rosters of incoming ships until he found which one I would be on.
It was a typical Army debarkment from a naval ship. We were rousted at 5 a.m. to make preparations for an 8 a.m. departure. It takes a long time for 3,000 men to get off, but after a couple hours standing in line with all our possessions in one duffel bag mounted on our shoulder, we finally made it to the gang plank
As I neared the shore, there was Bud shouting at my sergeant to let me out of the line. He had a hula girl and a Navy photographer to take our picture.
The sergeant relented and Bud said, “Take the duffel bag off your shoulder Pinky.”
“Bud,” I said, “if I take this duffel off my shoulder now, after two hours, I won’t have the strength to put it back up.”
It was true. That long with 50 pounds or more on your shoulder does somewhat weaken your lifting power. Besides, the sergeant was pushing us to get on with the picture-taking.
I still have a copy of the photo, my left arm around a hula girl and Bud helping me hold up the duffel bag.
We boarded a troop ship, the Sulton, for a 14-day trip to Hawaii. The 3,000 troops were much like me, never near an ocean, let alone aboard a ship
The result was that 90 per cent of the troops were seasick for the first three or four days at sea. That meant the other ten per cent had to pull the few duties not regularly assigned to the Navy crew running the ship. For some reason, I didn’t succumb to seasickness and got assigned as a telephone watch talker. That amounted to standing on the bridge at night looking for ships that radar might not pick up, thus avoiding collisions. Being able to see how a huge ship like that was run, and being a part of it, was thrilling duty for a young non-sailor like me.
The other good part was that the chow lines were nearly empty and those not sick were fed like kings. Eventually most of the troops got well and the usual waiting line for food resumed, but the telephone watch talking job continued for the two week cruise.
Another surprise came as we docked in Honolulu. Bud Farr, my friend from Murray, had enlisted in the Navy some time earlier and was with Military Sea Transport Service (MSTS). He actually got sea pay because his job took him out in the harbor at a lighthouse each day.
His mother and mine corresponded, so Bud knew I was coming to Hawaii for basic training. He had access to shipping logs and spent weeks scanning the rosters of incoming ships until he found which one I would be on.
It was a typical Army debarkment from a naval ship. We were rousted at 5 a.m. to make preparations for an 8 a.m. departure. It takes a long time for 3,000 men to get off, but after a couple hours standing in line with all our possessions in one duffel bag mounted on our shoulder, we finally made it to the gang plank
As I neared the shore, there was Bud shouting at my sergeant to let me out of the line. He had a hula girl and a Navy photographer to take our picture.
The sergeant relented and Bud said, “Take the duffel bag off your shoulder Pinky.”
“Bud,” I said, “if I take this duffel off my shoulder now, after two hours, I won’t have the strength to put it back up.”
It was true. That long with 50 pounds or more on your shoulder does somewhat weaken your lifting power. Besides, the sergeant was pushing us to get on with the picture-taking.
I still have a copy of the photo, my left arm around a hula girl and Bud helping me hold up the duffel bag.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Bell Bottoms
Bud and I got together on several occasions during the 16-week basic training course. I would hitch hike from Scofield down the coast to Pearl Harbor where Bud was stationed. He had access to a jeep so we would go on in to Honolulu for the weekend.
We normally would stay over at Ft. DeRussy or the YMCA, where we could get a bunk for 50 cents a night. We usually went to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel to see a top notch floor show. We would have a flowered aloha shirt and a pair of civilian slacks in our overnight bags and that was accepted dress even in the most posh Honolulu hotels. Civilian dress for trainees was strictly prohibited by military rules but the MPs, SPs and HASP(Hawaiian Armed Services Police) kind of looked the other way. We would buy a mixed drink for 50 or 75 cents and watch a free floor show. Tourists renting rooms provided money for such freebies and we took advantage of it.
Our weekends were quite sedate. The only excitement I remember was Chinese New Year. Many of the Orientals in Honolulu celebrated just as we do except with firecrackers. I didn’t see any particularly raucous behavior from military personnel but the brass apparently decided to avoid any problems. About midnight the various security forces were sent out with paddy wagons and we were all picked up and sent back to our bases. At least it was a free ride. Those in uniform were easy to spot and I guess the rest of us were pretty obvious too. We were not disciplined for being out of uniform either.
I flirted with trouble another weekend when Bud told me to meet him inside the gate at Pearl Harbor so I could go to chow with him before we went into town.
In order not to go through the process of getting his commanding officer’s okay for a guest in the mess hall (we weren’t even sure that was possible) Bud gave me one of his uniforms to wear so I would be just another swabbie eating.
We were about the same size so wearing the bell bottoms was no problem but I was concerned about recognizing naval rank and knowing when to salute. Bud suggested I keep the hat in my hand as if I was just putting it on and when anyone approached it would be acceptable not to salute as long as my hands were occupied.
We made it to the mess hall without incident but as I look back I shudder to think what would have happened if someone in authority had caught me impersonating a navy man, a federal offense, no doubt. We got outside the gate and I changed into civilian clothes and felt much better.
Bud and I got together on several occasions during the 16-week basic training course. I would hitch hike from Scofield down the coast to Pearl Harbor where Bud was stationed. He had access to a jeep so we would go on in to Honolulu for the weekend.
We normally would stay over at Ft. DeRussy or the YMCA, where we could get a bunk for 50 cents a night. We usually went to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel to see a top notch floor show. We would have a flowered aloha shirt and a pair of civilian slacks in our overnight bags and that was accepted dress even in the most posh Honolulu hotels. Civilian dress for trainees was strictly prohibited by military rules but the MPs, SPs and HASP(Hawaiian Armed Services Police) kind of looked the other way. We would buy a mixed drink for 50 or 75 cents and watch a free floor show. Tourists renting rooms provided money for such freebies and we took advantage of it.
Our weekends were quite sedate. The only excitement I remember was Chinese New Year. Many of the Orientals in Honolulu celebrated just as we do except with firecrackers. I didn’t see any particularly raucous behavior from military personnel but the brass apparently decided to avoid any problems. About midnight the various security forces were sent out with paddy wagons and we were all picked up and sent back to our bases. At least it was a free ride. Those in uniform were easy to spot and I guess the rest of us were pretty obvious too. We were not disciplined for being out of uniform either.
I flirted with trouble another weekend when Bud told me to meet him inside the gate at Pearl Harbor so I could go to chow with him before we went into town.
In order not to go through the process of getting his commanding officer’s okay for a guest in the mess hall (we weren’t even sure that was possible) Bud gave me one of his uniforms to wear so I would be just another swabbie eating.
We were about the same size so wearing the bell bottoms was no problem but I was concerned about recognizing naval rank and knowing when to salute. Bud suggested I keep the hat in my hand as if I was just putting it on and when anyone approached it would be acceptable not to salute as long as my hands were occupied.
We made it to the mess hall without incident but as I look back I shudder to think what would have happened if someone in authority had caught me impersonating a navy man, a federal offense, no doubt. We got outside the gate and I changed into civilian clothes and felt much better.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Waikiki
The Hawaiian weather was nice, but not perfect like you see in the movies. Mostly it was sunny but about four in the afternoon the cloudless sky would become overcast and it would rain for maybe 15 or 20 minutes. The sun-rain pattern might repeat itself until sundown.
When we were on a march (and we had some 50-mile hikes with full packs on our backs) and the rains came, the order would come down to don ponchos. Usually, by the time the order got to us, we would be soaking wet and then the sun would come out and we would roast under those non-breathing ponchos. Of course the order to remove ponchos would come just as the rain resumed and the procedure would continue as a complete snafu (situation normal, all fouled up).
Another weather related problem arose the day we arrived in Hawaii. The Army apparently decided to delay our first day of basic training and trucked us to Waikiki beach to spend the day. I lived up to my nickname, Pinky, and sunburned the color of beets.
We got back to the barracks late and I stripped down and lay naked on my top bunk to alleviate as much as possible the pain I felt.
It was past lights out and one of the members of my squad hollered, “Turn the blankity-blank light out McCormick.”
The moon shining through a window reflecting off my nude, red body acted like a beacon in that room.
During that day on the beach, a bunch of us were matching pennies to while the time away and one of the “local boys” joined in. All units were required to have a least one third from Hawaii or Guam. We were called “Mainlanders” or “Haole” and the others were the local boys. We couldn’t pronounce any of their names so we called most of them “Pineapple.” I had a hot streak and everybody dropped out except one local boy. He wanted to raise the ante to nickels, then quarters but he just couldn’t win. He insisted I match him (instead of choosing to match me) and I continued to do it, time after time. Finally I said we had to quit and he wanted to go one more time, for five dollars, because he was so far behind.
I didn’t want to but he insisted so I offered again to let him choose and this time he decided to match me after going the other way for all that time. Well, you know what happened, of course. The one time he changed, it went the other way and he lost again. I could see he was getting angry and some of his friends began to grumble so I bought a case of beer with the winnings and everybody was happy.
The Hawaiian weather was nice, but not perfect like you see in the movies. Mostly it was sunny but about four in the afternoon the cloudless sky would become overcast and it would rain for maybe 15 or 20 minutes. The sun-rain pattern might repeat itself until sundown.
When we were on a march (and we had some 50-mile hikes with full packs on our backs) and the rains came, the order would come down to don ponchos. Usually, by the time the order got to us, we would be soaking wet and then the sun would come out and we would roast under those non-breathing ponchos. Of course the order to remove ponchos would come just as the rain resumed and the procedure would continue as a complete snafu (situation normal, all fouled up).
Another weather related problem arose the day we arrived in Hawaii. The Army apparently decided to delay our first day of basic training and trucked us to Waikiki beach to spend the day. I lived up to my nickname, Pinky, and sunburned the color of beets.
We got back to the barracks late and I stripped down and lay naked on my top bunk to alleviate as much as possible the pain I felt.
It was past lights out and one of the members of my squad hollered, “Turn the blankity-blank light out McCormick.”
The moon shining through a window reflecting off my nude, red body acted like a beacon in that room.
During that day on the beach, a bunch of us were matching pennies to while the time away and one of the “local boys” joined in. All units were required to have a least one third from Hawaii or Guam. We were called “Mainlanders” or “Haole” and the others were the local boys. We couldn’t pronounce any of their names so we called most of them “Pineapple.” I had a hot streak and everybody dropped out except one local boy. He wanted to raise the ante to nickels, then quarters but he just couldn’t win. He insisted I match him (instead of choosing to match me) and I continued to do it, time after time. Finally I said we had to quit and he wanted to go one more time, for five dollars, because he was so far behind.
I didn’t want to but he insisted so I offered again to let him choose and this time he decided to match me after going the other way for all that time. Well, you know what happened, of course. The one time he changed, it went the other way and he lost again. I could see he was getting angry and some of his friends began to grumble so I bought a case of beer with the winnings and everybody was happy.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Basic Training
I didn’t have too much trouble in basic training. My one year of Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) at the University of Nebraska helped me with the marching drills and that also got me named squad leader. Our platoon was having trouble keeping in step so our cadre began looking for answers. My records probably showed I had played in high school and college marching bands in the percussion section so they dug up a snare drum and put me to work improving our cadence. It didn’t work. We put the drum away but by the end of the 16 weeks we fared reasonably well on the parade grounds.
Injustice raised its ugly head during close order drill one afternoon. We were given a break. It was a typical army routine, “Take ten, expect five, and get two!” We had a lieutenant of Chinese decent who was prone to showing his authority, whether it was necessary or not. He apparently thought I posed a problem to him and took the opportunity that afternoon to dress me down. To this day I do not know what I did wrong but fortunately that officer was transferred to another unit and I didn’t have to deal with him any longer.
Rumors are common fare in any army unit and ours was no exception. A member of our platoon regularly failed to show up at our first assignment of the day, class room, field maneuvers, et cetera.
We found out later he went on sick call, the first few times with permission, but after that on his own. His gold-bricking finally caught up with him. We were sent to the field one morning and he was absent as usual. The orders had failed to instruct us to bring our steel helmets. All we had were our helmet liners (the normal covering except in combat situations). A truck was dispatched to bring the missing items to us. Lo and behold, this fellow’s helmet liner was still by his bunk. These pieces of equipment had our names stenciled on them so there was no doubt this guy wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
He had been showing up at sick call every day and then taking off wherever he pleased. The rumor was that he was CID (Criminal Investigation Division) and that he was testing the cadre on keeping track of their troops. At any rate, we never saw him again.
I didn’t have too much trouble in basic training. My one year of Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) at the University of Nebraska helped me with the marching drills and that also got me named squad leader. Our platoon was having trouble keeping in step so our cadre began looking for answers. My records probably showed I had played in high school and college marching bands in the percussion section so they dug up a snare drum and put me to work improving our cadence. It didn’t work. We put the drum away but by the end of the 16 weeks we fared reasonably well on the parade grounds.
Injustice raised its ugly head during close order drill one afternoon. We were given a break. It was a typical army routine, “Take ten, expect five, and get two!” We had a lieutenant of Chinese decent who was prone to showing his authority, whether it was necessary or not. He apparently thought I posed a problem to him and took the opportunity that afternoon to dress me down. To this day I do not know what I did wrong but fortunately that officer was transferred to another unit and I didn’t have to deal with him any longer.
Rumors are common fare in any army unit and ours was no exception. A member of our platoon regularly failed to show up at our first assignment of the day, class room, field maneuvers, et cetera.
We found out later he went on sick call, the first few times with permission, but after that on his own. His gold-bricking finally caught up with him. We were sent to the field one morning and he was absent as usual. The orders had failed to instruct us to bring our steel helmets. All we had were our helmet liners (the normal covering except in combat situations). A truck was dispatched to bring the missing items to us. Lo and behold, this fellow’s helmet liner was still by his bunk. These pieces of equipment had our names stenciled on them so there was no doubt this guy wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
He had been showing up at sick call every day and then taking off wherever he pleased. The rumor was that he was CID (Criminal Investigation Division) and that he was testing the cadre on keeping track of their troops. At any rate, we never saw him again.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Small World
On an overnight bivouac I was paired with a squad member in a two man pup tent. While laying in the dark before going to sleep you get a chance to talk a little bit about home, where you are from, family, et cetera.
We got to talking about names and I said one of the most unusual was that of the folks who rented me a room at college, Smrha. My tent mate said he had heard that name and also in Lincoln, Nebraska. Come to find out, this man had come to UNL to enter graduate school and rented a room in the same house I had lived in. He subsequently found he could not get the course of study he wanted and decided instead to leave for the University of Oregon.
He had a 1932 Model B Ford but it was late and he was afraid he couldn’t get to Oregon in time for the beginning of the semester so he decided to sell the car and use the money for a plane ticket that would get him there in time.
My memory began to kick in and I realized who this fellow was. Myself, my room mate, and a friend of his were the ones who bought that car from him! We scrounged up $16 and some odd cents each to buy him out for $50. How strange life is. I had seen this fellow in the squad room and in the field but didn’t recognize him. Of course it had been only for a day or so in Lincoln that we saw him and only for long enough to negotiate the car purchase. Here we were, in the same tent thousands of miles from that campus home, remembering something that brought us together several years earlier.
The incident helped me recall our experience with that Model B. It was not in that bad of shape, except an 18 year old car needs constant care (the use of pliers and baling wire). One of the partners in the ownership worked for the Lincoln Star part time while attending law school. He was assigned to cover a murder trial in Wilbur, Nebraska, some 30 or 40 miles from Lincoln and drove the car every day for several weeks to that small Saline County town.
At issue in the trial was not whether the defendant had committed the crime, but whether it was premeditated murder. The man was finally convicted of shooting his wife’s lover in a local bar (the Foxhole Tavern). He came in with a gun, pointed it and misfired. He walked outside, fiddled with the firing pin, came back in and shot again. This time it worked. The jury decided he had time to think about it and therefore ruled it was premeditated.
Our friend got experience in two fields…journalism and criminal law. The car was not faring two well, however, and we got tired of having to repair it so we decided to take it to a weekly car auction and get what we could for it.
We wired up the bumpers good and put air in the tires ( they tended to lose pressure over a couple days ) and took the car to the site of the auction, telling the people in charge to put a minimum bid of $100 on it.
That evening we went to the sale and got more anxious as our car came up to be sold. Bidding was slow but the auctioneer finally got two people going until one bid $75. We looked at each other and I shouted at the auctioneer, “Sell it!”
My tent mate thought the story about his former car was hilarious. He said he got the courses he was looking for at Oregon and earned his master’s degree in history.
On an overnight bivouac I was paired with a squad member in a two man pup tent. While laying in the dark before going to sleep you get a chance to talk a little bit about home, where you are from, family, et cetera.
We got to talking about names and I said one of the most unusual was that of the folks who rented me a room at college, Smrha. My tent mate said he had heard that name and also in Lincoln, Nebraska. Come to find out, this man had come to UNL to enter graduate school and rented a room in the same house I had lived in. He subsequently found he could not get the course of study he wanted and decided instead to leave for the University of Oregon.
He had a 1932 Model B Ford but it was late and he was afraid he couldn’t get to Oregon in time for the beginning of the semester so he decided to sell the car and use the money for a plane ticket that would get him there in time.
My memory began to kick in and I realized who this fellow was. Myself, my room mate, and a friend of his were the ones who bought that car from him! We scrounged up $16 and some odd cents each to buy him out for $50. How strange life is. I had seen this fellow in the squad room and in the field but didn’t recognize him. Of course it had been only for a day or so in Lincoln that we saw him and only for long enough to negotiate the car purchase. Here we were, in the same tent thousands of miles from that campus home, remembering something that brought us together several years earlier.
The incident helped me recall our experience with that Model B. It was not in that bad of shape, except an 18 year old car needs constant care (the use of pliers and baling wire). One of the partners in the ownership worked for the Lincoln Star part time while attending law school. He was assigned to cover a murder trial in Wilbur, Nebraska, some 30 or 40 miles from Lincoln and drove the car every day for several weeks to that small Saline County town.
At issue in the trial was not whether the defendant had committed the crime, but whether it was premeditated murder. The man was finally convicted of shooting his wife’s lover in a local bar (the Foxhole Tavern). He came in with a gun, pointed it and misfired. He walked outside, fiddled with the firing pin, came back in and shot again. This time it worked. The jury decided he had time to think about it and therefore ruled it was premeditated.
Our friend got experience in two fields…journalism and criminal law. The car was not faring two well, however, and we got tired of having to repair it so we decided to take it to a weekly car auction and get what we could for it.
We wired up the bumpers good and put air in the tires ( they tended to lose pressure over a couple days ) and took the car to the site of the auction, telling the people in charge to put a minimum bid of $100 on it.
That evening we went to the sale and got more anxious as our car came up to be sold. Bidding was slow but the auctioneer finally got two people going until one bid $75. We looked at each other and I shouted at the auctioneer, “Sell it!”
My tent mate thought the story about his former car was hilarious. He said he got the courses he was looking for at Oregon and earned his master’s degree in history.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The Boxer
You don’t get to know anybody very well in a 16-week basic training course and sometimes that is for the best. A member of the squad got a broken jaw one night in the latrine but no one would talk about it. We all figured it was the work of the local boys, who were in the minority and tended to defend each other vigorously.
After basic was over I stayed behind because I had qualified for Officer Candidate School and ran into one of those local boys on the street. I knew him only casually but I passed the time of day and asked how come he had not been shipped out to Korea like most of the rest of the guys in our unit.
He informed me he was assigned to special services and if I was interested I could see him that night. He was on the card at the Box Bowl, the base boxing arena. He was just a bantam weight but I had no doubt he was the one who produced that broken jaw in our squad latrine. I certainly was grateful as squad leader I had not crossed him during our training.
You don’t get to know anybody very well in a 16-week basic training course and sometimes that is for the best. A member of the squad got a broken jaw one night in the latrine but no one would talk about it. We all figured it was the work of the local boys, who were in the minority and tended to defend each other vigorously.
After basic was over I stayed behind because I had qualified for Officer Candidate School and ran into one of those local boys on the street. I knew him only casually but I passed the time of day and asked how come he had not been shipped out to Korea like most of the rest of the guys in our unit.
He informed me he was assigned to special services and if I was interested I could see him that night. He was on the card at the Box Bowl, the base boxing arena. He was just a bantam weight but I had no doubt he was the one who produced that broken jaw in our squad latrine. I certainly was grateful as squad leader I had not crossed him during our training.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Precision Drill
Each quadrangle on the base at Scofield had a tavern for off duty G.I.s to relax. Three-two beer was the strongest item in the place but enough of it could produce the same result as stronger beer in lesser quantities.
We were not allowed in these facilities as trainees, but when we had finished our basic training the cadre traditionally invited the graduates to the tavern. Our place was called the “Fireman’s Hat.” As it happened, the night of the party, my turn came up to pull CQ (charge of quarters) so I had to stay back at our unit and man the telephone in the company clerk’s office. Unhappy as I was at missing the festivities, it was almost worth it to see the event I am about to describe.
About midnight two of our non-com cadre had nine of our ten squad members (I was missing, of course) in tow and marched them in close order drill across the compound. They were all “in their cups,” as the saying goes, and being very deliberate, as drunks so often become. The corporal in charge gave them crisp orders. “Column right, march…column left, march” et cetera, until he got them to the base of the stairs going up to our second-floor squad room. At this point, I abandoned my post in the first-floor office to see this drama play out.
Amazingly, the corporal gave precise orders getting the troops up the steps, gave them a column left down the hall and a column right into the swinging doors of the latrine. Now comes the tricky part. He maneuvered them along the wall until each one stood directly in front of a urinal.
“Right face! Unbutton pants, move!” There was a slight pause and one soldier just couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Who told you to piss?” the corporal screamed at him.
They all had serious hangovers the next morning and I had one of the funniest drill experiences of my army career. Perhaps those never having experienced military life won’t appreciate the humor but I certainly did.
Each quadrangle on the base at Scofield had a tavern for off duty G.I.s to relax. Three-two beer was the strongest item in the place but enough of it could produce the same result as stronger beer in lesser quantities.
We were not allowed in these facilities as trainees, but when we had finished our basic training the cadre traditionally invited the graduates to the tavern. Our place was called the “Fireman’s Hat.” As it happened, the night of the party, my turn came up to pull CQ (charge of quarters) so I had to stay back at our unit and man the telephone in the company clerk’s office. Unhappy as I was at missing the festivities, it was almost worth it to see the event I am about to describe.
About midnight two of our non-com cadre had nine of our ten squad members (I was missing, of course) in tow and marched them in close order drill across the compound. They were all “in their cups,” as the saying goes, and being very deliberate, as drunks so often become. The corporal in charge gave them crisp orders. “Column right, march…column left, march” et cetera, until he got them to the base of the stairs going up to our second-floor squad room. At this point, I abandoned my post in the first-floor office to see this drama play out.
Amazingly, the corporal gave precise orders getting the troops up the steps, gave them a column left down the hall and a column right into the swinging doors of the latrine. Now comes the tricky part. He maneuvered them along the wall until each one stood directly in front of a urinal.
“Right face! Unbutton pants, move!” There was a slight pause and one soldier just couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Who told you to piss?” the corporal screamed at him.
They all had serious hangovers the next morning and I had one of the funniest drill experiences of my army career. Perhaps those never having experienced military life won’t appreciate the humor but I certainly did.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Waiting for Orders
As I mentioned before, I didn’t get shipped out right away because of my appointment to OCS. When we were given the offer to take the tests, many who could have qualified for officer training did not because accepting meant a longer time in service. One had to agree to serve at least two years after being commissioned. That would extend the normal draft hitch of two years to at least three and many did not want to stay in that long.
I figured as long as I had to stay in I might as well get officer pay and privileges. Besides, I was single and an extra year did not mean that much at my age. In addition, I would get free transportation home and a delay-in-route leave.
As it turned out, the war in Korea ended just after I got there and I got out on early release because the government no longer needed that many second lieutenants. My tenure was a day or two short of the two years, the same as those who chose not to opt for OCS.
Those of us left behind after basic were assigned to a personnel unit (the Army couldn’t let us lay around the barracks, of course). We were given enough work to keep us busy for a while on a night shift but after a day or so we were told not to report for duty any more.
In a typical Army snafu, our original unit was not told our assignment was over. Since it was a night job we had been allowed to sack in the following mornings. We continued to do this but figured we better get lost during working hours (it was a 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. shift ). We went to the post golf course and got in 18 holes every day and considerable time afterwards at the 19th hole.
Our fun lasted about a week until one of our group went to the mail clerk to see if anything had come for him. That signaled the fact we had not been showing up for mail call and the subsequent investigation found us out. Fortunately our orders to go stateside came the next day and we were off the hook.
As I mentioned before, I didn’t get shipped out right away because of my appointment to OCS. When we were given the offer to take the tests, many who could have qualified for officer training did not because accepting meant a longer time in service. One had to agree to serve at least two years after being commissioned. That would extend the normal draft hitch of two years to at least three and many did not want to stay in that long.
I figured as long as I had to stay in I might as well get officer pay and privileges. Besides, I was single and an extra year did not mean that much at my age. In addition, I would get free transportation home and a delay-in-route leave.
As it turned out, the war in Korea ended just after I got there and I got out on early release because the government no longer needed that many second lieutenants. My tenure was a day or two short of the two years, the same as those who chose not to opt for OCS.
Those of us left behind after basic were assigned to a personnel unit (the Army couldn’t let us lay around the barracks, of course). We were given enough work to keep us busy for a while on a night shift but after a day or so we were told not to report for duty any more.
In a typical Army snafu, our original unit was not told our assignment was over. Since it was a night job we had been allowed to sack in the following mornings. We continued to do this but figured we better get lost during working hours (it was a 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. shift ). We went to the post golf course and got in 18 holes every day and considerable time afterwards at the 19th hole.
Our fun lasted about a week until one of our group went to the mail clerk to see if anything had come for him. That signaled the fact we had not been showing up for mail call and the subsequent investigation found us out. Fortunately our orders to go stateside came the next day and we were off the hook.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Caissons Go Rolling
The trip home was uneventful. It was another shipboard experience but now I was an E-2 after graduation from basic training. There isn’t much difference between E-l and E-2, just one notch above the lowest of the low. My pay went from $87.50 per month to maybe $90. It seemed like longer, but the ocean voyage took only six days and then we spent another four days at Camp Stoneman, California before boarding a train for Omaha. I was allowed a delay-in-route on the way to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma since I had some leave time coming by now, and I got about three weeks at home before reporting for class at OCS.
I reported for duty June 11, 1952 and was assigned to a battery which was on a hill removed from the rest of the camp. There were two units on the hill. One was the class coming in and the other just graduating.
The course is 22 weeks long (just longer than the hurried “90-day wonder” training during World War II) but the elapsed time is 23 weeks because the first seven days are used for orientation. “Hell Week,” it is called.
The name is apropos because that is exactly what it is, a week of Hell. The Redbirds, upperclassmen, use a variety of methods to weed out candidates who may not have the intensity to last the course. An example; one morning about 2 o’clock our cadre (regular Army men assigned to our class) and a number of Redbirds (so named because they are identified with red epaulets on their shoulders) rousted us from our sleep and told us to bring our foot lockers outside.
We hustled around, bleary-eyed, got the lockers outside and arranged them in a perfect line in front of the barracks with our poker-stiff bodies at attention behind them.
One of the cadre looked disdainfully at us and sneeringly said, “I didn’t tell you to bring the contents out, just the foot lockers.”
We were then instructed to dump the contents of the lockers in a common pile at the middle of the parade grounds. It took us until almost sunrise to sort out our own belongings and get back into the barracks in time for reveille.
When we did get back inside, each bunk had a blank resignation form on it. The object of the harassment being, of course, to see how far the candidates could be pushed.
For my part, I kept telling myself, “I’ll give it one more day. I’m not going to let those bastards beat me.” There wasn’t a day I didn’t say that to myself and eventually the 22-week course was over. A class mate of mine from high school was in his 12th week when I arrived at Ft. Sill. He dropped out with less that half the course to complete.
The trip home was uneventful. It was another shipboard experience but now I was an E-2 after graduation from basic training. There isn’t much difference between E-l and E-2, just one notch above the lowest of the low. My pay went from $87.50 per month to maybe $90. It seemed like longer, but the ocean voyage took only six days and then we spent another four days at Camp Stoneman, California before boarding a train for Omaha. I was allowed a delay-in-route on the way to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma since I had some leave time coming by now, and I got about three weeks at home before reporting for class at OCS.
I reported for duty June 11, 1952 and was assigned to a battery which was on a hill removed from the rest of the camp. There were two units on the hill. One was the class coming in and the other just graduating.
The course is 22 weeks long (just longer than the hurried “90-day wonder” training during World War II) but the elapsed time is 23 weeks because the first seven days are used for orientation. “Hell Week,” it is called.
The name is apropos because that is exactly what it is, a week of Hell. The Redbirds, upperclassmen, use a variety of methods to weed out candidates who may not have the intensity to last the course. An example; one morning about 2 o’clock our cadre (regular Army men assigned to our class) and a number of Redbirds (so named because they are identified with red epaulets on their shoulders) rousted us from our sleep and told us to bring our foot lockers outside.
We hustled around, bleary-eyed, got the lockers outside and arranged them in a perfect line in front of the barracks with our poker-stiff bodies at attention behind them.
One of the cadre looked disdainfully at us and sneeringly said, “I didn’t tell you to bring the contents out, just the foot lockers.”
We were then instructed to dump the contents of the lockers in a common pile at the middle of the parade grounds. It took us until almost sunrise to sort out our own belongings and get back into the barracks in time for reveille.
When we did get back inside, each bunk had a blank resignation form on it. The object of the harassment being, of course, to see how far the candidates could be pushed.
For my part, I kept telling myself, “I’ll give it one more day. I’m not going to let those bastards beat me.” There wasn’t a day I didn’t say that to myself and eventually the 22-week course was over. A class mate of mine from high school was in his 12th week when I arrived at Ft. Sill. He dropped out with less that half the course to complete.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Wipe that Smile Off Your Face
I had one more test before Hell Week was completed. The battery next to our barracks had invited the junior class from West Point Military Academy to a graduation dance. Those who had weekend passes apparently hitched a ride with a plane going to Tinker Air Force Base, which was near by.
Traditionally, the incoming class provides the outgoing battery a CQ so the entire unit can attend the party. Guess who got picked for the duty? Yours truly, of course.
It didn’t appear to be bad duty. All I had to do was man the battery clerk’s office from 8 p.m. to midnight. Since all the class members were at the dance, I did not have to be worried about being hazed. Not!
About 11 p.m. two Redbirds and two other uniformed men came to the office where I was seated. I, of course, stood immediately at attention. “Where are you from, Candidate?” asked one of them.
“Omaha, Nebraska, sir!” I answered.
That was not true. Of course, since I had been drafted from Ord in Valley County, Nebraska but I knew that response would require more explanation than I was prepared to give.
“Where is that in relation to San Francisco?” came the response.
It took a little time and I finally explained the location of Omaha to their satisfaction, but in the process broke a slight smile at something they said. That was a serious mistake.
“Wipe that smile off your face, Candidate. (Pause) Now throw it on the floor and step on it. (Pause) Is it dead?”
I knew if I answered no I would be required to continue stepping on it so I naturally answered, “Yes, Sir.”
“Well then play Taps for it, Candidate!”
After I mimicked an Army bugler badly, they let that issue alone and started on another.
“Do you know who I am?” said one of the men who was not a Redbird.
Other than his miniature captain’s bars, I did not recognize any of his insignia and didn’t have a clue as to his branch of service.
“Well, you surely know what USMA stands for, don’t you, Candidate?” said the one in the unfamiliar uniform.
“Marines, sir?” I asked tentatively.
That really did it. After informing me the gentlemen were from the United States Military Academy, each one of my visitors braced me for another 15 minutes.
By this time, I realized these guys had spent some time at the bar before coming to my duty station, so I wasn’t sure how far they might go. Shortly afterward, however, they stood me at ease and explained who they were and why they had come to Ft. Sill.
Apparently, the cadets and the OCS graduates got into an argument over who could chew an underclassman best, a West Point cadet or a Redbird. I was the sacrificial lamb. There was no resolution to their argument but and I would have given them a tie score. They were equally abusive. From that time forward, whenever I had to submit to a dressing down, I considered it mild compared to that evening when I was handled by the best.
I had one more test before Hell Week was completed. The battery next to our barracks had invited the junior class from West Point Military Academy to a graduation dance. Those who had weekend passes apparently hitched a ride with a plane going to Tinker Air Force Base, which was near by.
Traditionally, the incoming class provides the outgoing battery a CQ so the entire unit can attend the party. Guess who got picked for the duty? Yours truly, of course.
It didn’t appear to be bad duty. All I had to do was man the battery clerk’s office from 8 p.m. to midnight. Since all the class members were at the dance, I did not have to be worried about being hazed. Not!
About 11 p.m. two Redbirds and two other uniformed men came to the office where I was seated. I, of course, stood immediately at attention. “Where are you from, Candidate?” asked one of them.
“Omaha, Nebraska, sir!” I answered.
That was not true. Of course, since I had been drafted from Ord in Valley County, Nebraska but I knew that response would require more explanation than I was prepared to give.
“Where is that in relation to San Francisco?” came the response.
It took a little time and I finally explained the location of Omaha to their satisfaction, but in the process broke a slight smile at something they said. That was a serious mistake.
“Wipe that smile off your face, Candidate. (Pause) Now throw it on the floor and step on it. (Pause) Is it dead?”
I knew if I answered no I would be required to continue stepping on it so I naturally answered, “Yes, Sir.”
“Well then play Taps for it, Candidate!”
After I mimicked an Army bugler badly, they let that issue alone and started on another.
“Do you know who I am?” said one of the men who was not a Redbird.
Other than his miniature captain’s bars, I did not recognize any of his insignia and didn’t have a clue as to his branch of service.
“Well, you surely know what USMA stands for, don’t you, Candidate?” said the one in the unfamiliar uniform.
“Marines, sir?” I asked tentatively.
That really did it. After informing me the gentlemen were from the United States Military Academy, each one of my visitors braced me for another 15 minutes.
By this time, I realized these guys had spent some time at the bar before coming to my duty station, so I wasn’t sure how far they might go. Shortly afterward, however, they stood me at ease and explained who they were and why they had come to Ft. Sill.
Apparently, the cadets and the OCS graduates got into an argument over who could chew an underclassman best, a West Point cadet or a Redbird. I was the sacrificial lamb. There was no resolution to their argument but and I would have given them a tie score. They were equally abusive. From that time forward, whenever I had to submit to a dressing down, I considered it mild compared to that evening when I was handled by the best.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Wanted: Spit and Polish
I did fairly well with the academics at OCS but the “spit and polish” aspect found me wanting. I just didn’t have the knack of polishing shoes, lining up the shaving gear, et cetera, and consequently got very few weekend passes. I never got a weekend off except when the battery got a blanket pass. In order for a candidate to qualify for a pass a candidate could have no more than a certain number of gigs (demerits). I never made it under that minimum.
Occasionally the entire base or our unit together might be awarded a weekend but mostly I spent my Saturdays marching up MB 4. That is a point just outside the camp designated as Medicine Bow Mountain. Although it was not a mountain, just a hill, it seemed as high as the Alps with a 50-lb. pack on your back while jogging to catch up with the troops at the front of the pack.
An example of why I failed the gig quota was exemplified during one inspection. The Redbird in charge told me to get a stool and look at the florescent light behind my bunk. It was a short unit and nearly inaccessible as my bunk was in a corner. I dutifully got the stool, climbed up and read the following inscription—in the dust: July 7, 1952. Since it was now late August, it was obvious I hadn’t cleaned the light in several weeks. Another weekend without a pass!
Oh well, weekends were not that great anyway. Lawton, Oklahoma was the only community close to the base and it was strictly an army town. Oklahoma City attracted some of the candidates but liquor stores at that time were state owned and transients such as us would have difficulty obtaining a card to buy booze. Consequently, black market whiskey was the solution for some, but that was dangerous. Not only was it illegal, but the chance of getting seriously sick was a deterrent. An alternative was to go to Wichita Falls, (popularly known as Whiskey Falls), Texas where liquor could be purchased at will. The problem with that was the distance and availability of public transportation. Candidates were not allowed to have cars. Our commanding officer told us the first day, “This is not a mechanized unit. Park your cars for the duration of training.”
I did fairly well with the academics at OCS but the “spit and polish” aspect found me wanting. I just didn’t have the knack of polishing shoes, lining up the shaving gear, et cetera, and consequently got very few weekend passes. I never got a weekend off except when the battery got a blanket pass. In order for a candidate to qualify for a pass a candidate could have no more than a certain number of gigs (demerits). I never made it under that minimum.
Occasionally the entire base or our unit together might be awarded a weekend but mostly I spent my Saturdays marching up MB 4. That is a point just outside the camp designated as Medicine Bow Mountain. Although it was not a mountain, just a hill, it seemed as high as the Alps with a 50-lb. pack on your back while jogging to catch up with the troops at the front of the pack.
An example of why I failed the gig quota was exemplified during one inspection. The Redbird in charge told me to get a stool and look at the florescent light behind my bunk. It was a short unit and nearly inaccessible as my bunk was in a corner. I dutifully got the stool, climbed up and read the following inscription—in the dust: July 7, 1952. Since it was now late August, it was obvious I hadn’t cleaned the light in several weeks. Another weekend without a pass!
Oh well, weekends were not that great anyway. Lawton, Oklahoma was the only community close to the base and it was strictly an army town. Oklahoma City attracted some of the candidates but liquor stores at that time were state owned and transients such as us would have difficulty obtaining a card to buy booze. Consequently, black market whiskey was the solution for some, but that was dangerous. Not only was it illegal, but the chance of getting seriously sick was a deterrent. An alternative was to go to Wichita Falls, (popularly known as Whiskey Falls), Texas where liquor could be purchased at will. The problem with that was the distance and availability of public transportation. Candidates were not allowed to have cars. Our commanding officer told us the first day, “This is not a mechanized unit. Park your cars for the duration of training.”
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Command Presence
Since I seldom got a pass my experience in any of the off-base locations was limited. Only one was memorable and I didn’t realize its importance at the time.
On one of the corps weekends we were told there was a dance hall that had a great band playing. It turned out to be country-western style but in Oklahoma that is about all there was available. The featured attraction was a man named Hank Williams. I’m not enough of a western music buff to know if he was that well known in 1952 but he certainly was later.
Passing inspection did not get you through OCS, although it did have some bearing. The academic part was the most important requirement but “command presence” seemed to be of particular importance.
Command presence is the ability to give an order with authority in order to have it obeyed promptly and without question. At OCS the best way to demonstrate the quality was in parade marching, close order drill or in directing calisthenics.
I was blessed with a loud voice and that served me well in the command presence department. Our battery, after several weeks of training in close order drill, had not won the battalion flag for excellence in the weekly post parade. Our battery commander, Captain Brazier (we called him, behind his back, naturally, Captain Fatback, because he looked a lot like Porky Pig) was determined to get that flag.
Our problem, he decided, was that the candidate commander could not be heard all the way to the back of the unit when we were passing the reviewing stand. That resulted in a lack of uniformity when the command, “Eyes Right!” was given as we passed the “brass.”
Up to this time, candidate parade commanders were chosen on the basis of their “spit and polish” ability. Obviously this method had not produced the desired results so Capt. Brazier conducted a contest to determine the loudest voice in the battery and that was an area where I excelled. The good captain winced at my selection, since he was very well aware of my inspection record, but he was desperate.
We practiced hard and that Saturday Charlie Battery (our unit) won the coveted banner and we were allowed to carry it throughout the week. Capt. Brazier quickly replaced me as candidate commander so my successor got the honor of receiving the flag from the commanding general the following Monday. Fellow battery members urged me to step up and receive it since I had been at the helm when we won the banner but I declined. I decided it was not wise to bring attention to myself, given my track record.
On the other side of the coin, a lack of command presence might have destroyed a candidate at one of our morning physical exercise sessions. We took turns each day leading drills, giving us not only the workout value, but training us in voice commands. One of our members dreaded the day he would be picked to lead the drills because he was quite shy and his command presence was utterly lacking.
His nervousness showed as he prepared to give us the command, “Hands on hips, move!”
Instead, it came out, “Hips on shoulders, move!” Let’s hope his other skills in school pulled him through.
Since I seldom got a pass my experience in any of the off-base locations was limited. Only one was memorable and I didn’t realize its importance at the time.
On one of the corps weekends we were told there was a dance hall that had a great band playing. It turned out to be country-western style but in Oklahoma that is about all there was available. The featured attraction was a man named Hank Williams. I’m not enough of a western music buff to know if he was that well known in 1952 but he certainly was later.
Passing inspection did not get you through OCS, although it did have some bearing. The academic part was the most important requirement but “command presence” seemed to be of particular importance.
Command presence is the ability to give an order with authority in order to have it obeyed promptly and without question. At OCS the best way to demonstrate the quality was in parade marching, close order drill or in directing calisthenics.
I was blessed with a loud voice and that served me well in the command presence department. Our battery, after several weeks of training in close order drill, had not won the battalion flag for excellence in the weekly post parade. Our battery commander, Captain Brazier (we called him, behind his back, naturally, Captain Fatback, because he looked a lot like Porky Pig) was determined to get that flag.
Our problem, he decided, was that the candidate commander could not be heard all the way to the back of the unit when we were passing the reviewing stand. That resulted in a lack of uniformity when the command, “Eyes Right!” was given as we passed the “brass.”
Up to this time, candidate parade commanders were chosen on the basis of their “spit and polish” ability. Obviously this method had not produced the desired results so Capt. Brazier conducted a contest to determine the loudest voice in the battery and that was an area where I excelled. The good captain winced at my selection, since he was very well aware of my inspection record, but he was desperate.
We practiced hard and that Saturday Charlie Battery (our unit) won the coveted banner and we were allowed to carry it throughout the week. Capt. Brazier quickly replaced me as candidate commander so my successor got the honor of receiving the flag from the commanding general the following Monday. Fellow battery members urged me to step up and receive it since I had been at the helm when we won the banner but I declined. I decided it was not wise to bring attention to myself, given my track record.
On the other side of the coin, a lack of command presence might have destroyed a candidate at one of our morning physical exercise sessions. We took turns each day leading drills, giving us not only the workout value, but training us in voice commands. One of our members dreaded the day he would be picked to lead the drills because he was quite shy and his command presence was utterly lacking.
His nervousness showed as he prepared to give us the command, “Hands on hips, move!”
Instead, it came out, “Hips on shoulders, move!” Let’s hope his other skills in school pulled him through.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
An Ouija Bird
As I mentioned before, I handled the academic part of OCS reasonably well, having just recently graduated from college and accustomed to studying and taking exams.
I do remember one difficulty in a field problem when I was singled out for my particular ineptness. In spotting for the field artillery the forward observer (the job for which we were being trained) is in a fixed, known position. He estimates the distance to the target on an azimuth and directs the fire control center on that basis.
The particular problem this day revolved around the fact that the observation point was a moving location, so determining the line became quite difficult. The observer tends to direct the fire around the target instead of over and under, the conventional means of zeroing in.
When my turn to direct fire came up, I made the exact mistake the major in charge had warned us about and he looked at me quite disdainfully and said, “You are an Ouija bird, Candidate! Do you know what an Ouija bird is, Candidate?”
“No sir,” I replied.
“Well,” the major explained, “that is a bird that flies in ever decreasing concentric circles finally flying up its own asshole, thereby confusing the enemy!”
What could I say but, “Yes, sir.”
I have related that story a number of times through the years to illustrate a situation where those involved skirt around the problem and never hone in on it.
As I mentioned before, I handled the academic part of OCS reasonably well, having just recently graduated from college and accustomed to studying and taking exams.
I do remember one difficulty in a field problem when I was singled out for my particular ineptness. In spotting for the field artillery the forward observer (the job for which we were being trained) is in a fixed, known position. He estimates the distance to the target on an azimuth and directs the fire control center on that basis.
The particular problem this day revolved around the fact that the observation point was a moving location, so determining the line became quite difficult. The observer tends to direct the fire around the target instead of over and under, the conventional means of zeroing in.
When my turn to direct fire came up, I made the exact mistake the major in charge had warned us about and he looked at me quite disdainfully and said, “You are an Ouija bird, Candidate! Do you know what an Ouija bird is, Candidate?”
“No sir,” I replied.
“Well,” the major explained, “that is a bird that flies in ever decreasing concentric circles finally flying up its own asshole, thereby confusing the enemy!”
What could I say but, “Yes, sir.”
I have related that story a number of times through the years to illustrate a situation where those involved skirt around the problem and never hone in on it.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Starched
I think the reason that I, and I’m sure many more candidates, got through the academic portion of OCS was that we accepted the instructors’ word and simply learned our lessons by rote.
Two types of students in our classes had difficulty with this concept. One was the candidate with high intelligence and perhaps a background in math. He would try to derive all the formulas we used to determine targets, required elevation of the guns, and other technical data. He might spend time on theory and neglect the memorization. The rest of us just accepted the formulas and concentrated on remembering what we were told to do in certain situations.
The other group that had trouble were regular Army types who decided to get their commissions. Corporals and sergeants in the program had difficulty taking orders without question. They had spent their recent careers giving orders, not taking them. On the other hand, the rest of us had just come out of basic training and were accustomed to accepting authority. Again, many of our category of candidates were recent college graduates and used to school work.
With reference to those non-coms in our outfit, they were being paid at the rate of pay they came in with. We were told, in our information sessions to determine if we wanted to apply for OCS, that while we would not wear the stripes, we would be given sergeant’s pay. The reason for this, we were told, was because our personal expenses would be more as candidates than the normal soldier would have.
For example, we had to wear a freshly starched pair of fatigues each day. Aside from doing it yourself in the latrine every day, the alternative was to take them to the post laundry. Very few of us had the knack or the time to starch laundry. The cost for the professionals to do the job was 75 cents per pair and one had to buy extras to always have some available. The cost of starching amounted to about 25 per cent of a private’s base pay.
The logic of the extra money for us was reasonable and we looked forward to the raise. It didn’t happen. Starting with our unit, Class 28, the policy was changed and we retained our lowly pay status until we received our gold bars.
The pay situation illustrates a common Army axiom: Do not rely on any previously set policy to determine your future actions. A corollary: Don’t ever try to out-guess what the Army will do.
I think the reason that I, and I’m sure many more candidates, got through the academic portion of OCS was that we accepted the instructors’ word and simply learned our lessons by rote.
Two types of students in our classes had difficulty with this concept. One was the candidate with high intelligence and perhaps a background in math. He would try to derive all the formulas we used to determine targets, required elevation of the guns, and other technical data. He might spend time on theory and neglect the memorization. The rest of us just accepted the formulas and concentrated on remembering what we were told to do in certain situations.
The other group that had trouble were regular Army types who decided to get their commissions. Corporals and sergeants in the program had difficulty taking orders without question. They had spent their recent careers giving orders, not taking them. On the other hand, the rest of us had just come out of basic training and were accustomed to accepting authority. Again, many of our category of candidates were recent college graduates and used to school work.
With reference to those non-coms in our outfit, they were being paid at the rate of pay they came in with. We were told, in our information sessions to determine if we wanted to apply for OCS, that while we would not wear the stripes, we would be given sergeant’s pay. The reason for this, we were told, was because our personal expenses would be more as candidates than the normal soldier would have.
For example, we had to wear a freshly starched pair of fatigues each day. Aside from doing it yourself in the latrine every day, the alternative was to take them to the post laundry. Very few of us had the knack or the time to starch laundry. The cost for the professionals to do the job was 75 cents per pair and one had to buy extras to always have some available. The cost of starching amounted to about 25 per cent of a private’s base pay.
The logic of the extra money for us was reasonable and we looked forward to the raise. It didn’t happen. Starting with our unit, Class 28, the policy was changed and we retained our lowly pay status until we received our gold bars.
The pay situation illustrates a common Army axiom: Do not rely on any previously set policy to determine your future actions. A corollary: Don’t ever try to out-guess what the Army will do.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Pinks and Greens
The days dragged on and with the resolve of lasting one more sunrise, 18 of the 22 weeks passed. At that point, we became Redbirds and turned into the ogres we had so hated for the first period of our training.
It amazed me how the candidates we were in charge of tried the same lame excuses and ruses to pass inspection as we did, hiding extra hangers under the springs on their cot, for instance. The Redbird system took into account that the upper classmen would know all the tricks because they had “been there, done that.”
Those last few weeks gave us hope that we would eventually get our commissions. But it was not without problems, particularly with a few of us who did not seem to want to conform to Capt. Fatback’s expectations.
He gathered us together as graduation approached and, in a fatherly manner, explained about what to expect. Enlisted personnel are supplied with uniforms, housing and food. Officers get higher pay but must pay for their own meals. They get an allotment for housing but single men don’t ever see it. It is taken to pay for your space in the BOQ (bachelor officer quarters). Officers are given $150 to buy uniforms when they are commissioned but after that must pay for their own.
Our dear captain said he was not allowed to direct us to any particular store down town, but XYZ Store (the one we were sure he was getting a kickback from) would be a good place to go. As an afterthought, he said the post quartermaster also had officers’ uniforms but it was quite evident he didn’t think that was a good choice for us.
Several of us checked it out and found the stores down town had uniforms that would nearly eat up our entire $150 allotment and the post quartermaster could provide the same thing for about $80 and we could pocket the extra 70 bucks. These outfits we were required to have were dress uniforms called “Pinks and Greens.” They were so called because the trousers were gabardine and a pink color while the blouse was a very dark green. We were not aware of it at the time, but the occasions to use the dress uniform were few. I still have mine stored away in a basement closet. I probably wore it twice during my Army hitch.
Capt. Brazier wasn’t very happy with our decision to buy quartermaster uniforms but he couldn’t do anything about it, except make us sweat about the fit. He took it upon himself to make sure his officers wore properly fitted uniforms. All of those who spent their money where he suggested passed inspection without much difficulty. Those of us who defied him by buying on the post had to fall out morning after morning to see if he approved of our fit. We had to keep returning to the quartermaster for minor alterations until he finally got tired of the game and let us be.
The days dragged on and with the resolve of lasting one more sunrise, 18 of the 22 weeks passed. At that point, we became Redbirds and turned into the ogres we had so hated for the first period of our training.
It amazed me how the candidates we were in charge of tried the same lame excuses and ruses to pass inspection as we did, hiding extra hangers under the springs on their cot, for instance. The Redbird system took into account that the upper classmen would know all the tricks because they had “been there, done that.”
Those last few weeks gave us hope that we would eventually get our commissions. But it was not without problems, particularly with a few of us who did not seem to want to conform to Capt. Fatback’s expectations.
He gathered us together as graduation approached and, in a fatherly manner, explained about what to expect. Enlisted personnel are supplied with uniforms, housing and food. Officers get higher pay but must pay for their own meals. They get an allotment for housing but single men don’t ever see it. It is taken to pay for your space in the BOQ (bachelor officer quarters). Officers are given $150 to buy uniforms when they are commissioned but after that must pay for their own.
Our dear captain said he was not allowed to direct us to any particular store down town, but XYZ Store (the one we were sure he was getting a kickback from) would be a good place to go. As an afterthought, he said the post quartermaster also had officers’ uniforms but it was quite evident he didn’t think that was a good choice for us.
Several of us checked it out and found the stores down town had uniforms that would nearly eat up our entire $150 allotment and the post quartermaster could provide the same thing for about $80 and we could pocket the extra 70 bucks. These outfits we were required to have were dress uniforms called “Pinks and Greens.” They were so called because the trousers were gabardine and a pink color while the blouse was a very dark green. We were not aware of it at the time, but the occasions to use the dress uniform were few. I still have mine stored away in a basement closet. I probably wore it twice during my Army hitch.
Capt. Brazier wasn’t very happy with our decision to buy quartermaster uniforms but he couldn’t do anything about it, except make us sweat about the fit. He took it upon himself to make sure his officers wore properly fitted uniforms. All of those who spent their money where he suggested passed inspection without much difficulty. Those of us who defied him by buying on the post had to fall out morning after morning to see if he approved of our fit. We had to keep returning to the quartermaster for minor alterations until he finally got tired of the game and let us be.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
“I Guess He’s Normal”
We had one final hurdle to pass before receiving our commission. That was a review board of field grade officers. Each candidate goes in one at a time to answer questions from the board with no prior knowledge of what might be asked.
In my case, following the requisite salute, I was told to sit and a stern looking major said, “Do you smoke?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Drink?”
“Socially, sir,” I hesitated.
“Go with girls?”
“When available, yes, sir!” I answered.
The major looked at the other officers around the table and grinned. “I guess he’s normal.”
It was their way of relaxing the candidates, I guess.
The questions they asked were more or less rhetorical and a specific answer was not expected. One was judged on his reasoning process. The only question I remember was one about a swimming pool situation. I was told I was a lifeguard at an army post with only two people in the pool. One was the base commander’s wife and the other was a private.
Both swimmers go under at the same time, apparently in trouble. Which one do you save? There is no right answer, of course, but I made an attempt by saying I would go to the closest one and get to the other as quickly as possible.
We had one final hurdle to pass before receiving our commission. That was a review board of field grade officers. Each candidate goes in one at a time to answer questions from the board with no prior knowledge of what might be asked.
In my case, following the requisite salute, I was told to sit and a stern looking major said, “Do you smoke?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Drink?”
“Socially, sir,” I hesitated.
“Go with girls?”
“When available, yes, sir!” I answered.
The major looked at the other officers around the table and grinned. “I guess he’s normal.”
It was their way of relaxing the candidates, I guess.
The questions they asked were more or less rhetorical and a specific answer was not expected. One was judged on his reasoning process. The only question I remember was one about a swimming pool situation. I was told I was a lifeguard at an army post with only two people in the pool. One was the base commander’s wife and the other was a private.
Both swimmers go under at the same time, apparently in trouble. Which one do you save? There is no right answer, of course, but I made an attempt by saying I would go to the closest one and get to the other as quickly as possible.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Shave Tail
Mother, and some friends who had worked with her at the Quiz in Ord, drove to Ft. Sill for graduation. She pinned my bars on and I went back to Omaha with them for some leave time before heading to my first duty assignment. We didn’t dally around the base, first, because I was greatly relieved to be leaving with a commission, and second because it was a post requirement. Apparently some newly commissioned officers might want to get even with members of the cadre who had given them a bad time. (Remember the sequence in the movie An Officer and a Gentleman)? Requiring the “shave tails” to leave within 24 hours from the time they were commissioned avoided the problem.
“Shave tail” is a term referring to second lieutenants. It comes from the means with which officers were identified in the early days of the American army. Traditionally, officers had epaulets on the shoulders of their shirts on which to pin their insignia of rank. When an enlisted man became an officer he had to improvise, so he would cut material from the tail of his shirt and make epaulets to sew on his shoulders. Thus the term, “shave tail.”
Mother, and some friends who had worked with her at the Quiz in Ord, drove to Ft. Sill for graduation. She pinned my bars on and I went back to Omaha with them for some leave time before heading to my first duty assignment. We didn’t dally around the base, first, because I was greatly relieved to be leaving with a commission, and second because it was a post requirement. Apparently some newly commissioned officers might want to get even with members of the cadre who had given them a bad time. (Remember the sequence in the movie An Officer and a Gentleman)? Requiring the “shave tails” to leave within 24 hours from the time they were commissioned avoided the problem.
“Shave tail” is a term referring to second lieutenants. It comes from the means with which officers were identified in the early days of the American army. Traditionally, officers had epaulets on the shoulders of their shirts on which to pin their insignia of rank. When an enlisted man became an officer he had to improvise, so he would cut material from the tail of his shirt and make epaulets to sew on his shoulders. Thus the term, “shave tail.”
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Camp Atterbury
My first duty assignment as an officer was at Camp Atterbury, Indiana, some 20 to 30 miles south of Indianapolis. It was a training camp for newly drafted soldiers and some National Guard units called up for the Korean conflict.
My duties included teaching some classes, military courtesy and other non-technical information required in basic training. But as the newest officer in the battery, I got all the unwanted duty, such as mess officer.
That wasn’t so bad but older officers didn’t like it because it entailed daily inspections (some times early in the morning) and other boring work. One day, the first cook told me he found evidence of a mouse in the mess hall so I told him I would handle it.
I got out the phone book and found just what I needed, the post exterminator. I called and they said they would take care of it. Three days later a pickup truck with three men backed up to the kitchen. Two got out (I assume the driver felt compelled to stay with his vehicle). One carried a mouse trap and the other a piece of cheese. They deposited their cargo without a word, got back into the pickup and drove away.
My turn as weekend duty officer seemed to come up quite often also, but the new man doesn’t question orders. This duty, again, was not so bad. You just had to be available during your weekend in case of an emergency in the battery area.
On my first duty weekend I stopped in at the enlisted men’s day room on Saturday night to see how things were going (part of my responsibility). They were having a party and invited me to have drink with them.
I said no thanks because I was on duty but it didn’t take much persuasion to have just one. An hour or so later (and a good deal more than one drink) I made it back to my BOQ It was morning before I woke up with a hangover and the realization that had an emergency arose, I may not have been able to handle it. Fortunately the night passed without incident and I avoided a situation that might have called for a court-martial. My relationship with the enlisted men in the battery was quite good after that, however.
My first duty assignment as an officer was at Camp Atterbury, Indiana, some 20 to 30 miles south of Indianapolis. It was a training camp for newly drafted soldiers and some National Guard units called up for the Korean conflict.
My duties included teaching some classes, military courtesy and other non-technical information required in basic training. But as the newest officer in the battery, I got all the unwanted duty, such as mess officer.
That wasn’t so bad but older officers didn’t like it because it entailed daily inspections (some times early in the morning) and other boring work. One day, the first cook told me he found evidence of a mouse in the mess hall so I told him I would handle it.
I got out the phone book and found just what I needed, the post exterminator. I called and they said they would take care of it. Three days later a pickup truck with three men backed up to the kitchen. Two got out (I assume the driver felt compelled to stay with his vehicle). One carried a mouse trap and the other a piece of cheese. They deposited their cargo without a word, got back into the pickup and drove away.
My turn as weekend duty officer seemed to come up quite often also, but the new man doesn’t question orders. This duty, again, was not so bad. You just had to be available during your weekend in case of an emergency in the battery area.
On my first duty weekend I stopped in at the enlisted men’s day room on Saturday night to see how things were going (part of my responsibility). They were having a party and invited me to have drink with them.
I said no thanks because I was on duty but it didn’t take much persuasion to have just one. An hour or so later (and a good deal more than one drink) I made it back to my BOQ It was morning before I woke up with a hangover and the realization that had an emergency arose, I may not have been able to handle it. Fortunately the night passed without incident and I avoided a situation that might have called for a court-martial. My relationship with the enlisted men in the battery was quite good after that, however.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
All Present or Accounted For
Another unwanted duty was officer of the day at battalion level. This required getting up before the crack of dawn and standing before the assembled batteries of sleepy-eyed men to report their presence.
This picture is retained in my memory. It is still dark, since the sun is not up yet. At least four batteries making up the battalion of 1,000 men or so are stretched out in front of you. It is at least a block and a half each way for the forming of the troops. The job is simply to call them to attention (without aid of microphone or any other artificial sound equipment) and get their reports.
“Battalll…ion! Atten…hut!” the DO bellows, and after the troops snap to, he requires them to “Report!”
“A Battery all present or accounted for, sir!”
“B Battery all present or accounted for, sir!”
“C Battery all present or accounted for, sir!”
This goes on until all units are heard from.
I had finally realized the emphasis on command presence—a loud voice, in the exercise of that morning. Of course, no unit ever reported anyone missing. That was all handled on the morning report, a written document submitted daily up the chain of command. On it those missing, on leave or sick call, or perhaps actually absent without leave (AWOL) would be so identified. Thus everyone was in fact present, or accounted for.
I suppose getting all the troops out at one time in a uniform fashion served some perverse army purpose but I never found out what it was.
Early in my assignment to Camp Atterbury I went to the first sergeant in my battery to get acquainted. He was a career man and had spent some time as a Texas Ranger before entering service, as well as having pulled duty as a guard at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas. Those jobs give some indication of his general demeanor.
I admitted to being green as a gourd, which was obvious to him, and would appreciate any help and direction I could get. He said he would help when he could and we became good friends during my stay.
I was filling in for an officer in another battery, who was gone on emergency leave, and happened to be alone when the phone rang. Certain protocol is required when answering the phone and I followed it precisely:
“First Battalion, Battery C, Lt. McCormick speaking, Sir!”
“Are you standing at attention, lieutenant?” a voice on the other end asked authoritatively.
“Yes, Sir!” was my reply.
“Well, you don’t have to stand at attention for a sergeant, lieutenant.” I knew then it was my first sergeant pulling my leg.
Another unwanted duty was officer of the day at battalion level. This required getting up before the crack of dawn and standing before the assembled batteries of sleepy-eyed men to report their presence.
This picture is retained in my memory. It is still dark, since the sun is not up yet. At least four batteries making up the battalion of 1,000 men or so are stretched out in front of you. It is at least a block and a half each way for the forming of the troops. The job is simply to call them to attention (without aid of microphone or any other artificial sound equipment) and get their reports.
“Battalll…ion! Atten…hut!” the DO bellows, and after the troops snap to, he requires them to “Report!”
“A Battery all present or accounted for, sir!”
“B Battery all present or accounted for, sir!”
“C Battery all present or accounted for, sir!”
This goes on until all units are heard from.
I had finally realized the emphasis on command presence—a loud voice, in the exercise of that morning. Of course, no unit ever reported anyone missing. That was all handled on the morning report, a written document submitted daily up the chain of command. On it those missing, on leave or sick call, or perhaps actually absent without leave (AWOL) would be so identified. Thus everyone was in fact present, or accounted for.
I suppose getting all the troops out at one time in a uniform fashion served some perverse army purpose but I never found out what it was.
Early in my assignment to Camp Atterbury I went to the first sergeant in my battery to get acquainted. He was a career man and had spent some time as a Texas Ranger before entering service, as well as having pulled duty as a guard at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas. Those jobs give some indication of his general demeanor.
I admitted to being green as a gourd, which was obvious to him, and would appreciate any help and direction I could get. He said he would help when he could and we became good friends during my stay.
I was filling in for an officer in another battery, who was gone on emergency leave, and happened to be alone when the phone rang. Certain protocol is required when answering the phone and I followed it precisely:
“First Battalion, Battery C, Lt. McCormick speaking, Sir!”
“Are you standing at attention, lieutenant?” a voice on the other end asked authoritatively.
“Yes, Sir!” was my reply.
“Well, you don’t have to stand at attention for a sergeant, lieutenant.” I knew then it was my first sergeant pulling my leg.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
“The MPs Always Bring Me Back”
It seems I was always filling in for someone. One week the commanding officer of my battery, a captain, was on leave and all the other officers were otherwise occupied. It was a Monday and the first sergeant (with a little knowing glint in his eye) said one of the men had been picked up by the Military Police in Indianapolis for drunkenness. It is the duty of the commanding officer (that was me, pro-tem) to administer punishment in such a case.
The outfit I was with was composed mostly of Alabama National Guardsmen who were called up for the Korean emergency. They were nearly finished with their tours of duty and were being sent home in small groups. Since they were short timers, they were not really attentive to duty.
So here I was, a 23 year old lieutenant, having to call on the carpet a “40 something” corporal who could care less about morality. I talked to him a while about the seriousness of his actions and how drink could affect his life, et cetera.
After a bit, I said he would have to take company punishment (I could have had him court-marshaled) and confined him to the barracks for three weekends.
I asked him if he had learned anything from his experience and his reply was quite sanguine. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I’ll never buy another round trip ticket into town. The MPs always bring me back!”
It seems I was always filling in for someone. One week the commanding officer of my battery, a captain, was on leave and all the other officers were otherwise occupied. It was a Monday and the first sergeant (with a little knowing glint in his eye) said one of the men had been picked up by the Military Police in Indianapolis for drunkenness. It is the duty of the commanding officer (that was me, pro-tem) to administer punishment in such a case.
The outfit I was with was composed mostly of Alabama National Guardsmen who were called up for the Korean emergency. They were nearly finished with their tours of duty and were being sent home in small groups. Since they were short timers, they were not really attentive to duty.
So here I was, a 23 year old lieutenant, having to call on the carpet a “40 something” corporal who could care less about morality. I talked to him a while about the seriousness of his actions and how drink could affect his life, et cetera.
After a bit, I said he would have to take company punishment (I could have had him court-marshaled) and confined him to the barracks for three weekends.
I asked him if he had learned anything from his experience and his reply was quite sanguine. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I’ll never buy another round trip ticket into town. The MPs always bring me back!”
Monday, February 12, 2007
Lieutenant Wells Fargo
I got another extra duty that typifies how Army regulations can sometimes be intolerable. Each month the payroll for the entire base came in and it was necessary to put extra guards on duty before the money could be disbursed the next day. There were not enough MPs for this once-a-month chore so on one particular month I was assigned nine men to do the job of guarding the payroll office over night.
The nine men were raw recruits with little experience in weaponry (and an officer in charge with not much more). Adding to the problem was that orders read for the guards to carry submachine guns with one round in the chamber.
The submachine guns were what were commonly referred to as “grease guns.” The Army had developed them as a quick and cheap means of laying down a lot of fire, but sadly, little accuracy. The weapon was so cheap rumor had it the parts were valued at only $l.98. The butt was a wire handle and the barrel looked like a grease gun, thus the nickname. Because of their construction it was quite possible for them to discharge simply by dropping them on the ground. With a round in the chamber, who knows what ill fate might befall my eight-hour guard duty?
There were other problems. I had to draw 900 rounds of ammunition (100 rounds for each man) so I went to the ammo dump with my orders. I was told by a captain the ammo could not be issued except for combat or training.
Since my job fell under neither category, I had no idea how I was going to fulfill my orders. About then I heard a “Psst, Lieutenant,” from around the corner of the building. It was a corporal who had overheard my conversation with the captain and he said he could get me all the ammo I wanted if I would just bring my jeep around the back the next afternoon.
I followed his instructions and he had the ammo ready for me. I issued the weapons and ammo to the nine recruits and prayed for no accidents. The night went without incident and troops turned in their armament at 8 a.m. the next day when the regular MPs took over.
I loaded the ammo into my jeep and went back to the corporal and asked him where he wanted me to put it.
“Don’t bring it in here, Lieutenant. I’ve taken care of all the paper work and that ammo does not exist!”
This was just like a scene out of M*A*S*H* with Corporal O’Reilly scrounging up material and the trouble it sometimes evoked.
I went back to the battery and my captain told me I couldn’t keep the ammo there and not to take it to my B.O.Q. since that would be a court-martial offense.
What to do? At the suggestion of my first sergeant friend, I gathered a bunch of officers, who were issued .45 caliber hand guns, and we took the contraband to the firing range and shot it all up, all 900 rounds. The ammo was nine millimeter but it fit the .45 cal. pistols.
I got another extra duty that typifies how Army regulations can sometimes be intolerable. Each month the payroll for the entire base came in and it was necessary to put extra guards on duty before the money could be disbursed the next day. There were not enough MPs for this once-a-month chore so on one particular month I was assigned nine men to do the job of guarding the payroll office over night.
The nine men were raw recruits with little experience in weaponry (and an officer in charge with not much more). Adding to the problem was that orders read for the guards to carry submachine guns with one round in the chamber.
The submachine guns were what were commonly referred to as “grease guns.” The Army had developed them as a quick and cheap means of laying down a lot of fire, but sadly, little accuracy. The weapon was so cheap rumor had it the parts were valued at only $l.98. The butt was a wire handle and the barrel looked like a grease gun, thus the nickname. Because of their construction it was quite possible for them to discharge simply by dropping them on the ground. With a round in the chamber, who knows what ill fate might befall my eight-hour guard duty?
There were other problems. I had to draw 900 rounds of ammunition (100 rounds for each man) so I went to the ammo dump with my orders. I was told by a captain the ammo could not be issued except for combat or training.
Since my job fell under neither category, I had no idea how I was going to fulfill my orders. About then I heard a “Psst, Lieutenant,” from around the corner of the building. It was a corporal who had overheard my conversation with the captain and he said he could get me all the ammo I wanted if I would just bring my jeep around the back the next afternoon.
I followed his instructions and he had the ammo ready for me. I issued the weapons and ammo to the nine recruits and prayed for no accidents. The night went without incident and troops turned in their armament at 8 a.m. the next day when the regular MPs took over.
I loaded the ammo into my jeep and went back to the corporal and asked him where he wanted me to put it.
“Don’t bring it in here, Lieutenant. I’ve taken care of all the paper work and that ammo does not exist!”
This was just like a scene out of M*A*S*H* with Corporal O’Reilly scrounging up material and the trouble it sometimes evoked.
I went back to the battery and my captain told me I couldn’t keep the ammo there and not to take it to my B.O.Q. since that would be a court-martial offense.
What to do? At the suggestion of my first sergeant friend, I gathered a bunch of officers, who were issued .45 caliber hand guns, and we took the contraband to the firing range and shot it all up, all 900 rounds. The ammo was nine millimeter but it fit the .45 cal. pistols.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Foot Lockers
My commanding officer was a nice guy and he wanted to do something for the Alabama guardsmen being released. As they were leaving he told them to pack their gear in steel foot lockers they had been issued and take them along home.
That, of course, was against regulation since all issued equipment, except uniforms, had to be turned in. It was no problem as long as the captain remained in command. However, when transferred, all commanding officers must submit to an inventory accounting for all equipment. Our captain had given away nearly a dozen foot lockers when he got orders transferring him to another outfit.
He knew he would have to replace the foot lockers so he went to the quartermaster to see how much it would cost him to avoid a court-martial.
Believe it or not, the base had recently replaced all their foot lockers, exchanging the wooden variety for the new steel ones. Fortunately for the captain, there were a number of old styles still on hand and being sold to all comers for a buck each. Further luck appeared when it was discovered the lot numbers for the two styles stayed identical. So for very little money and lot of luck, he avoided a court-martial. The remaining unit members being discharged had to settle for a hand shake and the Army had to settle for a few wooden foot lockers left in place of the steel variety.
My commanding officer was a nice guy and he wanted to do something for the Alabama guardsmen being released. As they were leaving he told them to pack their gear in steel foot lockers they had been issued and take them along home.
That, of course, was against regulation since all issued equipment, except uniforms, had to be turned in. It was no problem as long as the captain remained in command. However, when transferred, all commanding officers must submit to an inventory accounting for all equipment. Our captain had given away nearly a dozen foot lockers when he got orders transferring him to another outfit.
He knew he would have to replace the foot lockers so he went to the quartermaster to see how much it would cost him to avoid a court-martial.
Believe it or not, the base had recently replaced all their foot lockers, exchanging the wooden variety for the new steel ones. Fortunately for the captain, there were a number of old styles still on hand and being sold to all comers for a buck each. Further luck appeared when it was discovered the lot numbers for the two styles stayed identical. So for very little money and lot of luck, he avoided a court-martial. The remaining unit members being discharged had to settle for a hand shake and the Army had to settle for a few wooden foot lockers left in place of the steel variety.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Naptown
It seems I got so much extra duty I never got a weekend off but I did make it into “Naptown” (Indianapolis) once in a while. Very few of us had cars but the post had shelters just outside the entrance. If you sat there for a bit local residents, or higher grade officers, with cars would pick you up and take you into town.
One weekend, however, one of the junior officers with a vehicle invited me to go in for a night on the town along with several others.
He had been told about a nightclub on the edge of town called the Chicken Hut and where the so-called “action” was. We drove out there about 9 p.m. When we went to the door, an attendant said they were closed. There were numerous cars in the parking lot and noise could be heard from the lighted interior.
We sat outside to see if anyone came in or out and eventually several rough looking youths came out and were arguing heatedly. Suddenly several of the youths split the group, jumped in a vehicle and took off just as two police patrol cars wheeled in with their sirens blasting.
One cruiser chased the fleeing car and we could hear the “pap, pap” sound of what we figured to be a .38 caliber pistol being fired. Officers from the other patrol car got out and it was then we saw one of the youths on the ground, apparently stabbed.
We milled around the parking lot to see what was going on and one of our group found a pocket knife with what appeared to be blood on it. We turned it over to the police and they took all our names, apparently so we could be contacted later for testimony.
We got involved, I suppose, so we might get some time off duty to testify in an interesting court case. To my knowledge none of us were ever called and I have no idea whether the car pursuit was successful or if anyone was ever charged in the case.
Later we were told the nightclub had been under suspicion for a number of liquor law violations and other criminal activities. That must have been why they were cautious about letting anybody they didn’t know into their place.
It seems I got so much extra duty I never got a weekend off but I did make it into “Naptown” (Indianapolis) once in a while. Very few of us had cars but the post had shelters just outside the entrance. If you sat there for a bit local residents, or higher grade officers, with cars would pick you up and take you into town.
One weekend, however, one of the junior officers with a vehicle invited me to go in for a night on the town along with several others.
He had been told about a nightclub on the edge of town called the Chicken Hut and where the so-called “action” was. We drove out there about 9 p.m. When we went to the door, an attendant said they were closed. There were numerous cars in the parking lot and noise could be heard from the lighted interior.
We sat outside to see if anyone came in or out and eventually several rough looking youths came out and were arguing heatedly. Suddenly several of the youths split the group, jumped in a vehicle and took off just as two police patrol cars wheeled in with their sirens blasting.
One cruiser chased the fleeing car and we could hear the “pap, pap” sound of what we figured to be a .38 caliber pistol being fired. Officers from the other patrol car got out and it was then we saw one of the youths on the ground, apparently stabbed.
We milled around the parking lot to see what was going on and one of our group found a pocket knife with what appeared to be blood on it. We turned it over to the police and they took all our names, apparently so we could be contacted later for testimony.
We got involved, I suppose, so we might get some time off duty to testify in an interesting court case. To my knowledge none of us were ever called and I have no idea whether the car pursuit was successful or if anyone was ever charged in the case.
Later we were told the nightclub had been under suspicion for a number of liquor law violations and other criminal activities. That must have been why they were cautious about letting anybody they didn’t know into their place.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Advanced Military Training
In February of 1953 I got another assignment principally because no one else wanted it. It was a week long Air-Ground Specialist School, teaching the loading of airplanes so the weight would be distributed properly. This was not of high interest to most officers, but again, my position gave me no choice in the matter.
As it turned out, the school was supposed to be for field grade officers (captains and above) with secret clearance. Don’t ask me why it required that type of clearance, just put it down to Army red tape.
All of the field grade officers in the battalion who were qualified found reasons not to go. Of the junior officers available most were ROTC graduates and received only confidential clearance (one level below secret). Again, why OCS and Military Academy grads received secret clearance can only be explained as unknown Army reasoning.
At any rate, I was the only choice left so I packed my duffel bag with fatigues, put on my class A uniform and boarded a train for Southern Pines, North Carolina.
I knew the school was not going to be what I had expected when a headquarters staff car met me at the train and took me to a plantation with a huge home transformed into a school.
It turned out the Army, Navy and Air Force ran the school jointly and each service tended to out-do the other in training aids. It was the first time I had every seen black light and that was just one example of advanced training techniques they employed.
Classes lasted usually from 9 a.m. to noon. After a leisurely lunch, a bus would pull up about 2 p.m. and most of the students would be transported to one of the many golf courses in the area, one of which hosted the U.S. Open one year.
A lowly second lieutenant was not invited to share a foursome, even if he had brought along golf clubs or proper attire.
Another reason I avoided the companionship of the other students, beside the difference in rank, was because of one particular captain. To my dismay, I recognized my former OCS battery commanding officer, the dreaded Captain Fatback. It has been rumored he was relieved of his command when authorities discovered his improper dealings with downtown Lawton uniform suppliers. I made it a point to seat myself away from him in class and I don’t know whether he remembered me or not.
I returned to Camp Atterbury retaining very little learned at the school since my job would never require it. It did help my unit fulfill their obligation, however.
In February of 1953 I got another assignment principally because no one else wanted it. It was a week long Air-Ground Specialist School, teaching the loading of airplanes so the weight would be distributed properly. This was not of high interest to most officers, but again, my position gave me no choice in the matter.
As it turned out, the school was supposed to be for field grade officers (captains and above) with secret clearance. Don’t ask me why it required that type of clearance, just put it down to Army red tape.
All of the field grade officers in the battalion who were qualified found reasons not to go. Of the junior officers available most were ROTC graduates and received only confidential clearance (one level below secret). Again, why OCS and Military Academy grads received secret clearance can only be explained as unknown Army reasoning.
At any rate, I was the only choice left so I packed my duffel bag with fatigues, put on my class A uniform and boarded a train for Southern Pines, North Carolina.
I knew the school was not going to be what I had expected when a headquarters staff car met me at the train and took me to a plantation with a huge home transformed into a school.
It turned out the Army, Navy and Air Force ran the school jointly and each service tended to out-do the other in training aids. It was the first time I had every seen black light and that was just one example of advanced training techniques they employed.
Classes lasted usually from 9 a.m. to noon. After a leisurely lunch, a bus would pull up about 2 p.m. and most of the students would be transported to one of the many golf courses in the area, one of which hosted the U.S. Open one year.
A lowly second lieutenant was not invited to share a foursome, even if he had brought along golf clubs or proper attire.
Another reason I avoided the companionship of the other students, beside the difference in rank, was because of one particular captain. To my dismay, I recognized my former OCS battery commanding officer, the dreaded Captain Fatback. It has been rumored he was relieved of his command when authorities discovered his improper dealings with downtown Lawton uniform suppliers. I made it a point to seat myself away from him in class and I don’t know whether he remembered me or not.
I returned to Camp Atterbury retaining very little learned at the school since my job would never require it. It did help my unit fulfill their obligation, however.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Korea and a Few Stops In-Between
The following May I received my orders for Korea but I had 30 days leave coming so I got a delay-in-route and spent a month at home.
Following my leave, I went to Ft. Lewis, Washington where we stayed about a week being processed before beginning our journey to Korea.
Once again, I had to deal with the adage, never try to out-guess the Army. This was late June, summer weather, right? Even Washington in June can be warm and I knew weather in Korea was similar to the Midwest (the 38th parallel runs through Kansas). I left my winter uniforms in Omaha. Since the Northwest can be either chilly or warm, GIs out there are allowed to wear either uniform. Whoever wrote our orders didn’t anticipate where we were going and we were required to board the plane in winter clothing.
Consequently, I had to go to the post commissary and buy a winter uniform to board the plane for our trip to Korea or else face a court-martial for disobeying orders. It was well into the 90s when we arrived in Korea so the winter uniform was excess. When you have limited space in a duffel bag, such excess is discarded.
That was as bad as the overnight bag I won at bingo on the troop ship going to basic training in Hawaii, only to throw it overboard because it wouldn’t fit in the one duffel bag I was allowed.
From Ft. Lewis, which was near Seattle, we were taken to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada for our flight to Japan. Canada’s contribution to the Korean War effort was using their commercial air lines to transport troops.
Our flight route took us over the Aleutian Islands on our way to Camp Drake in Tokyo. Japan. The weather became bad and the pilot apparently was told to land at Cold Bay, Alaska in the Aleutians. This particular air base is situated so the landing strip ends with a huge drop off into the sea. As our plane came out of the clouds the pilot saw he was below the level of the air field, with nothing but a cliff looming in front and the sea boiling below. He quickly banked to the left, nearly dipping one wing into the water, and got high enough to take another approach.
As we came in for a landing, I looked out and saw several emergency vehicles waiting for us on the runway. I was on the opposite side of the plane and couldn’t see the danger we had overcome. The tower control people were not taking any chances and had prepared for a crash landing.
We found out later our pilot, a civilian, was the youngest Canadian ever to receive a license to fly a major air line plane. His youth may have helped him in his quick reaction and perhaps saved us from a watery grave.
The air base was not expecting us, of course, so there were no sleeping accommodations in this far northern outpost. I found a rec room and curled up on a pool table for the night. Before leaving the next day we could see why few airmen wanted this base for duty. Rope lines were strung between buildings so troops could find their way during frequent snow storms. Barracks were unpainted because constant winds simply removed the paint. At least the tour of duty there was short because of the high incidence of depression.
The following May I received my orders for Korea but I had 30 days leave coming so I got a delay-in-route and spent a month at home.
Following my leave, I went to Ft. Lewis, Washington where we stayed about a week being processed before beginning our journey to Korea.
Once again, I had to deal with the adage, never try to out-guess the Army. This was late June, summer weather, right? Even Washington in June can be warm and I knew weather in Korea was similar to the Midwest (the 38th parallel runs through Kansas). I left my winter uniforms in Omaha. Since the Northwest can be either chilly or warm, GIs out there are allowed to wear either uniform. Whoever wrote our orders didn’t anticipate where we were going and we were required to board the plane in winter clothing.
Consequently, I had to go to the post commissary and buy a winter uniform to board the plane for our trip to Korea or else face a court-martial for disobeying orders. It was well into the 90s when we arrived in Korea so the winter uniform was excess. When you have limited space in a duffel bag, such excess is discarded.
That was as bad as the overnight bag I won at bingo on the troop ship going to basic training in Hawaii, only to throw it overboard because it wouldn’t fit in the one duffel bag I was allowed.
From Ft. Lewis, which was near Seattle, we were taken to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada for our flight to Japan. Canada’s contribution to the Korean War effort was using their commercial air lines to transport troops.
Our flight route took us over the Aleutian Islands on our way to Camp Drake in Tokyo. Japan. The weather became bad and the pilot apparently was told to land at Cold Bay, Alaska in the Aleutians. This particular air base is situated so the landing strip ends with a huge drop off into the sea. As our plane came out of the clouds the pilot saw he was below the level of the air field, with nothing but a cliff looming in front and the sea boiling below. He quickly banked to the left, nearly dipping one wing into the water, and got high enough to take another approach.
As we came in for a landing, I looked out and saw several emergency vehicles waiting for us on the runway. I was on the opposite side of the plane and couldn’t see the danger we had overcome. The tower control people were not taking any chances and had prepared for a crash landing.
We found out later our pilot, a civilian, was the youngest Canadian ever to receive a license to fly a major air line plane. His youth may have helped him in his quick reaction and perhaps saved us from a watery grave.
The air base was not expecting us, of course, so there were no sleeping accommodations in this far northern outpost. I found a rec room and curled up on a pool table for the night. Before leaving the next day we could see why few airmen wanted this base for duty. Rope lines were strung between buildings so troops could find their way during frequent snow storms. Barracks were unpainted because constant winds simply removed the paint. At least the tour of duty there was short because of the high incidence of depression.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Camp Drake
We came into Tokyo at night and the sight was spectacular for this “wide-eyed Midwesterner” who was experiencing his first flight on a commercial air line. Tokyo at the time was a city of seven or eight million souls and it seemingly stretched out for miles across the Japanese landscape.
We were at Camp Drake for about a week. In looking at my orders when writing this piece, I see we were there over the Fourth of July. When you are headed for the unknown in a war zone, holidays don’t grab much attention.
On July 6 we headed for our destination, which we thought was Korea. A flood in southern Japan, however, prevented us from reaching our port so our orders were changed. We were sent to a specialist’s school at Eta Jima (not Iwo Jima of World War II fame). The school prepared junior officers to become proficient in the art of chemical, biological and radiological warfare. It was not designed to wage war, but rather, prepare us in case the enemy used those methods against us.
I mention again that people in our position, i.e., on our way to war, pay little heed to world events or daily activities. I don’t think it was necessarily because we were afraid, although we were, but more because of the uncertainty. One tends to live for the moment because of that uncertain tomorrow.
With that background I relate the events of the hours preceding our boarding a train for southern Japan and my realization that the next stop could be on a hill serving as a forward observer for an artillery unit in Korea.
The officers’ club at Camp Drake found itself in a surplus financial condition and under Army rules they could not exceed a certain amount in their slush fund. To correct the situation they announced a free-drink day to reduce the surplus.
Despite the temptation to overdo, the permanent officers at Camp Drake knew they had to show up for duty in reasonably good shape. It was not so for transients who were on their way into the unknown. We imbibed more than we should have.
Our train was scheduled to leave at 6 p.m. from Tokyo Station and by the time we poured ourselves into an Army bus to go, we did not reflect what our commissions had described of us, an “officer and a gentleman.” One of our number even stashed a couple full bottles of whiskey from the club before we left so we were well supplied even on our trip downtown.
Once we got to Tokyo Station we were feeling no pain. I have never been in Grand Central Station in New York City but this place had to be three times as big. No one was exactly sure when our train left or where to find the right track, but an urgent mission precluded any searching.
With the quantities of liquid we had consumed, it was quite evident we needed to find the facilities. This was long before the advent of international signs posted for rest rooms and such. We didn’t read Japanese. Finally, one of the guys spotted a large garden area that could possibly obscure our presence. After taking advantage of the bushes, we then proceeded to find our boarding location.
When we arrived at the edge of the garden where we had entered, we found a large corrugated door had been lowered and we were no longer able to get out. Missing a troop shipment is a court-martial offense and, in time of war, punishable by death.
Our panic was extreme and certainly had a sudden sobering (both practically and figuratively) effect. We beat on the door and after a while someone heard us and opened it. We finally found our train and discovered we still had an hour to spare but no one was sorry we hadn’t tarried.
We boarded the famed “Bullet Train” that travels in excess of 100 miles per hour and began our journey to Eta Jima. To say our bodies were not in top notch condition would be an understatement. That much speed on rails added to our discomfort. A further complication was the construction of Japanese urinals (which we continued to find an important part of our several hours journey). These units are not constructed on the wall so one can stand up to them. They are implanted in the floor without any rail-holds alongside and require a squatting position to use. The Japanese (also Koreans) are accustomed to this style of bathroom. They sit hour after hour at their businesses or in conversation in this squatting position. For an American GI rocking side to side at 100 miles an hour with a hangover, it was pure Hell.
Our consternation was not over. When we detrained at Eta Jima, we found the depot was alongside a fishing port. The fishermen found it convenient to spread their nets to dry along the railroad tracks. The fish were left in the sun also. The smell for a healthy person was horrendous, but for those in our condition it was enough to send us over the edge. The locals were naturally accustomed to the smell and thought nothing of it.
The school was interesting enough but it was sufficient only to certify us as battalion CBR officers when we reached our units in Korea.
We came into Tokyo at night and the sight was spectacular for this “wide-eyed Midwesterner” who was experiencing his first flight on a commercial air line. Tokyo at the time was a city of seven or eight million souls and it seemingly stretched out for miles across the Japanese landscape.
We were at Camp Drake for about a week. In looking at my orders when writing this piece, I see we were there over the Fourth of July. When you are headed for the unknown in a war zone, holidays don’t grab much attention.
On July 6 we headed for our destination, which we thought was Korea. A flood in southern Japan, however, prevented us from reaching our port so our orders were changed. We were sent to a specialist’s school at Eta Jima (not Iwo Jima of World War II fame). The school prepared junior officers to become proficient in the art of chemical, biological and radiological warfare. It was not designed to wage war, but rather, prepare us in case the enemy used those methods against us.
I mention again that people in our position, i.e., on our way to war, pay little heed to world events or daily activities. I don’t think it was necessarily because we were afraid, although we were, but more because of the uncertainty. One tends to live for the moment because of that uncertain tomorrow.
With that background I relate the events of the hours preceding our boarding a train for southern Japan and my realization that the next stop could be on a hill serving as a forward observer for an artillery unit in Korea.
The officers’ club at Camp Drake found itself in a surplus financial condition and under Army rules they could not exceed a certain amount in their slush fund. To correct the situation they announced a free-drink day to reduce the surplus.
Despite the temptation to overdo, the permanent officers at Camp Drake knew they had to show up for duty in reasonably good shape. It was not so for transients who were on their way into the unknown. We imbibed more than we should have.
Our train was scheduled to leave at 6 p.m. from Tokyo Station and by the time we poured ourselves into an Army bus to go, we did not reflect what our commissions had described of us, an “officer and a gentleman.” One of our number even stashed a couple full bottles of whiskey from the club before we left so we were well supplied even on our trip downtown.
Once we got to Tokyo Station we were feeling no pain. I have never been in Grand Central Station in New York City but this place had to be three times as big. No one was exactly sure when our train left or where to find the right track, but an urgent mission precluded any searching.
With the quantities of liquid we had consumed, it was quite evident we needed to find the facilities. This was long before the advent of international signs posted for rest rooms and such. We didn’t read Japanese. Finally, one of the guys spotted a large garden area that could possibly obscure our presence. After taking advantage of the bushes, we then proceeded to find our boarding location.
When we arrived at the edge of the garden where we had entered, we found a large corrugated door had been lowered and we were no longer able to get out. Missing a troop shipment is a court-martial offense and, in time of war, punishable by death.
Our panic was extreme and certainly had a sudden sobering (both practically and figuratively) effect. We beat on the door and after a while someone heard us and opened it. We finally found our train and discovered we still had an hour to spare but no one was sorry we hadn’t tarried.
We boarded the famed “Bullet Train” that travels in excess of 100 miles per hour and began our journey to Eta Jima. To say our bodies were not in top notch condition would be an understatement. That much speed on rails added to our discomfort. A further complication was the construction of Japanese urinals (which we continued to find an important part of our several hours journey). These units are not constructed on the wall so one can stand up to them. They are implanted in the floor without any rail-holds alongside and require a squatting position to use. The Japanese (also Koreans) are accustomed to this style of bathroom. They sit hour after hour at their businesses or in conversation in this squatting position. For an American GI rocking side to side at 100 miles an hour with a hangover, it was pure Hell.
Our consternation was not over. When we detrained at Eta Jima, we found the depot was alongside a fishing port. The fishermen found it convenient to spread their nets to dry along the railroad tracks. The fish were left in the sun also. The smell for a healthy person was horrendous, but for those in our condition it was enough to send us over the edge. The locals were naturally accustomed to the smell and thought nothing of it.
The school was interesting enough but it was sufficient only to certify us as battalion CBR officers when we reached our units in Korea.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Inchon
We were sent to the port city of Sasebo, Kyushu now that the flood waters had receded and waited there for our boat to Korea. We had to wait about four days so we had some time to relax. One evening we hired a cab to take four of us to a night club high on a hill just outside the city. It was a small Japanese car and although it was hard to fit us all in, we accepted the vehicle, supposing it was all that was available. Our mistake became evident later when the cab driver stopped the taxi half way up the hill and told us that was as far his car could go, not enough power. We reluctantly paid him off and trudged the rest of the way on foot. After that, we either hired a full size car or asked whether the destination was on a hill.
Our trip across the Sea of Japan was on a small boat already loaded with several Air Force officers. We were terribly green, of course, but even so we could not understand why they were so unfriendly to us. We found out the reason later. It seems these officers had served their time in Korea and were going home. When they got their orders they had a choice between flying home or shipping out on this boat. A flight would not be available for several weeks so they opted to take the boat, which was leaving immediately.
Even though the boat took 13 days and the flight just hours, they still would have been home sooner by leaving immediately. Wrong! After they boarded, the ship’s orders were changed and it became a shuttle between Korea and Japan. They had been riding that boat back and forth between Korea and Japan waiting for the Air Force paper work to get them other transportation. Once again, don’t ever try to out-guess the military. When we found out the reason for their anger, we understood.
Four days later we had rounded the southern tip of Korea and dropped anchor at Inchon on the Yellow Sea side of the country. Inchon was not a deep water port so we had to stay several miles out and utilized LSTs (Landing Ship Troops) to go ashore. It was just like the movie I had seen of World War II with landings at Omaha Beach, except there was no gunfire for us. It was just an everyday occurrence for the port of Inchon.
We almost had some gunfire. After we landed it was necessary to lug our duffel bags through the town of Yong Dong Po to the Army replacement post (commonly referred to as a “repo depo”).
As we trudged along, we were accosted by some young Korean kids wanting cigarettes or candy. These youngsters, most of them not over ten or twelve years old, were street wise and had learned all the tricks. One of their ruses used a piece of metal in the rear of a paperback book. While the newly-landed GI was distracted, the urchin would deftly flip the book up and pick pens, pencils, or other items from the pocket of the victim and then run like hell. One soon learned to keep such objects inside the pocket with the flap buttoned to avoid them being stolen.
Enter one of my fellow officers (a graduate of Texas A & M University). He had shunned the .45 caliber sidearm issued by the Army and had his own .38 in a holster, slung true Texas style, and tied down with a leather thong.
These Korean kids saw a challenge and while several of them hassled the young lieutenant from the front, another tried to lift the gun from the rear. Our Texan took umbrage at this and drew on them. It was not without some effort we finally got him to cool down and we made it through town to our barracks.
We were sent to the port city of Sasebo, Kyushu now that the flood waters had receded and waited there for our boat to Korea. We had to wait about four days so we had some time to relax. One evening we hired a cab to take four of us to a night club high on a hill just outside the city. It was a small Japanese car and although it was hard to fit us all in, we accepted the vehicle, supposing it was all that was available. Our mistake became evident later when the cab driver stopped the taxi half way up the hill and told us that was as far his car could go, not enough power. We reluctantly paid him off and trudged the rest of the way on foot. After that, we either hired a full size car or asked whether the destination was on a hill.
Our trip across the Sea of Japan was on a small boat already loaded with several Air Force officers. We were terribly green, of course, but even so we could not understand why they were so unfriendly to us. We found out the reason later. It seems these officers had served their time in Korea and were going home. When they got their orders they had a choice between flying home or shipping out on this boat. A flight would not be available for several weeks so they opted to take the boat, which was leaving immediately.
Even though the boat took 13 days and the flight just hours, they still would have been home sooner by leaving immediately. Wrong! After they boarded, the ship’s orders were changed and it became a shuttle between Korea and Japan. They had been riding that boat back and forth between Korea and Japan waiting for the Air Force paper work to get them other transportation. Once again, don’t ever try to out-guess the military. When we found out the reason for their anger, we understood.
Four days later we had rounded the southern tip of Korea and dropped anchor at Inchon on the Yellow Sea side of the country. Inchon was not a deep water port so we had to stay several miles out and utilized LSTs (Landing Ship Troops) to go ashore. It was just like the movie I had seen of World War II with landings at Omaha Beach, except there was no gunfire for us. It was just an everyday occurrence for the port of Inchon.
We almost had some gunfire. After we landed it was necessary to lug our duffel bags through the town of Yong Dong Po to the Army replacement post (commonly referred to as a “repo depo”).
As we trudged along, we were accosted by some young Korean kids wanting cigarettes or candy. These youngsters, most of them not over ten or twelve years old, were street wise and had learned all the tricks. One of their ruses used a piece of metal in the rear of a paperback book. While the newly-landed GI was distracted, the urchin would deftly flip the book up and pick pens, pencils, or other items from the pocket of the victim and then run like hell. One soon learned to keep such objects inside the pocket with the flap buttoned to avoid them being stolen.
Enter one of my fellow officers (a graduate of Texas A & M University). He had shunned the .45 caliber sidearm issued by the Army and had his own .38 in a holster, slung true Texas style, and tied down with a leather thong.
These Korean kids saw a challenge and while several of them hassled the young lieutenant from the front, another tried to lift the gun from the rear. Our Texan took umbrage at this and drew on them. It was not without some effort we finally got him to cool down and we made it through town to our barracks.
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