We Don't Walk Nowhere

“Hey James, wake up, they want you in the CO’s office.”

“Why, hell it’s two a.m. why?” I asked as I stared up at Bud Gilkie, the on duty barracks fireguard.

“I don’t know mother fucker the CQ runner just came by and told me to wake your ass up and send you to the CO’s office.”

“Shit I hate fireguard.” Gilkie said as he walked away in his white skivvies, flashlight in hand.

We all hated fireguard though I’m sure it was necessary since we were living in wooden barracks at Fort Leonardwood, MO that were built for WW II inductees. These twenty five year old, wooden buildings were heated by coal furnaces…I guess fire would be a concern.

A fireguard was also on duty to be sure that no one broke the security of the barracks. In DI (drill instructor) terms, “don’t let nobody steal nothin from inside the platoon or outside it.” The strongest weapon a fireguard had was how funny he appeared, one look and an intruder would laugh himself to death. The standard uniform for fireguard duty was a helmet liner, white GI issue t-shirt, extremely baggy, white boxer shorts, flip flops and a four battery flashlight. Not exactly the look on a recruiting poster.

I drug my weary young ass, twenty to be exact, out of the sack and hustled down to the latrine. I splashed some water on my face and stared at myself for a moment. I wanted to see the maturing look of a soldier but all I was seeing was the same boyish look that had been there for as long as I can remember. I had my Mom’s brown eyes, clear and welcoming without a hint of intimidation. Thin face that only needed to be shaved every other day at most. And the stubble of my brown hair was just reappearing on my head. I wondered what it would take to make me look more like a steely eyed American fighting man. I laughed to myself at the thought and wondered what the hell they wanted with me in the CO’s office? I’m totally squared away. I haven’t screwed up. I wasn’t supposed to be on any kind of duty. Forget it dipshit just tuck your fatigue shirt into your pants, lace up and blouse your boots, straighten your gigline and head for the CO’s office. At double time of course because in Company “C” we don’t walk nowhere. Granted I was never a star English pupil but even I knew that wasn’t proper but that’s how the Senior Drill Instructor put it on our first day here and for the time being he wrote our world.

I entered the CO’s office, tore off my fatigue cap and slapped it to my right leg. Standing at a rigid position of attention I shouted “Sergeant, Private James reporting as ordered.”

“You’ve got a phone call dick-head.”

Dick-head, it was Sergeant Avers’ endearing term for all of us. As soon as I heard the words phone call I somehow knew what I was about to hear.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Son?”

“Dad?”

“Son I’m afraid I have some very hard news for you.”

“You don’t have to say anymore Dad, I know. Mom’s dead.”

“How’d you know?”

“I don’t know, I just did.”

“Son I talked with the Red Cross and they explained about emergency leave. They’ll be sending you home tomorrow. “Son? I’m sorry.”

“Thanks Dad, I’ll see you in a day or so.”

My folks had been divorced for some time and probably should have split up a long time before that so it wasn’t hard on my Dad. And while he and I didn’t have much of a relationship, I’ll always believe he felt genuinely sorry for me that night.

“James, what’s wrong anyway?” Asked Sergeant Avers.

“Sergeant, my Mom died.”

“Life is a shit sandwich private and everyday you have to take another bite.

Do you know where the Red Cross building is?”

“No sergeant.”

“Remember the building with all the pretty flags around it from when you first came on post?”

“No sergeant.”

“You’re about a dumb fuck aren’t you private?”

“Yes sergeant.”

Sergeant Avers, I later learned, was a pretty good guy. But for now he was one mean son of a bitch. Made that way I’m sure by seeing so much death in vKorea and now training so many young asses to go get shot up in Vietnam. He gave me directions to the Red Cross building and told me be to be there at 0700 hours.

Life is a shit sandwich, thanks Sarg for that piece of life’s philosophy. I feel a lot better now I thought as I double timed back to the barracks. We don’t walk nowhere.

At 0430 we were awakened by the gentle sounds of Sergeant Woodrow’s swagger stick being run around the inside of an empty GI can followed closely by drop your cocks and grab your socks. Who comes up with that shit anyway?

The reality that my Mom died was setting in as I showered, shaved, dressed and squared away my bunk and area. Then it’s double time to the mess hall, stand in line and study the pages in a pocket sized notebook that basically contains everything you need to know about being a soldier until it’s my turn to yell R.A. sergeant and enter the mess hall. R.A. stands for regular army and identifies someone who enlisted and in theory receives better treatment from the DI’s. It’s pretty much just theory. There are NG’s, National Guard, US’s, draftees and reservists. I can’t remember what they were called but who cares? They’re just weekend warriors who’ll be back home in six months.

In the mess hall it’s always the same. Take all you want but eat all you take.

“Come on move it you dick-heads your buddies are waiting in the cold to get in here.”

Every greasy breakfast food including creamed chipped beef on toast better know in the army as SOS, shit on a shingle. Why would anyone in their right mind eat that crap if they didn’t have to? But the lifers loved it. I once had some SOS with a little egg yolk mixed in with it on my tray. It looked just like puke. A mess sergeant walked by and said “you’d better eat that private,” I said “I did.” He said “then eat it again and get the fuck out of my mess hall.”

It never took more than five or six minutes to suck down breakfast and then double time back to the barracks. With any luck there’d be an open crapper. GI breakfasts move quickly. The whole army experience is pretty dehumanizing. Six or eight guys sittin’ ‘n shittin’ about 12 inches apart, no partitions. It’s one of the early steps toward leaving civilized life behind.

If you hustled, and I always did, you could be back in your bunk area in time to just sit on your footlocker for five or 10 minutes before falling out for the day’s training.

The guy I shared my bunk with walked up and said “hey, you okay?”

“Not really,” I replied. “My Mom died last night.” And then it hit me full on and I cried.

In what seemed a blur I got my emergency leave orders and went to the Red Cross building to get my ticket home. I was in such a haze I don’t remember how I got to the St. Louis airport. But I flew to Chicago O’Hare where I was picked up by my dad and for the moment I was a civilian again.

It was late 1965 and Vietnam hadn’t gone sour in the minds of Americans yet. The U.S. was in the early stages of an undeclared war and GI’s still had respect. In short we were somewhat revered by friends, family and even strangers. Hell, Korea was only 10 years old, WW II just twenty and there was still something valiant about serving your country. Keith Jackson hadn’t yet uttered, “whoa Nellie,” on national TV, if he ever really did, but “whoa Nellie” were things ever going to change.