1971

ARMY

There is a strip of asphalt in front of the Quonset hut of platoon 2 Company D that even now 46 years later part of me is still standing in front of while screaming drill sergeants declare what a low life motherfucker son of a donkey shit I am. It was easy to believe First class Sergeant Hill when he said we would never forget his face.

Sergeant’s boot slammed into the heel of my foot for not standing straight and looking tall. The brim of his smoky the bear hat up brushed up against my cheek as he declared the induction center barber left too much sideburn. I twinged as he took out a pair of tweezers and began plucking out the obscene hairs. Orders that were at first welcomed to drop and give me 20 because they broke the tedium of standing at attention became problematic as my limbs got pushed aside to cause collapse. A glance of the eye elsewhere but straight ahead or slump of the shoulder were cause for further attacks. At least there were other people groaning besides me.

The Quonset hut which appeared drab and dreary at first glance now provoked longing to get inside its warmth. My head filled with worry.

Is not fair me having a lottery number 6

Why in the hell did I not go to Canada

Why can’t my mind take me to a different place

Are they ever going to let us get in the Quonset hut

How am going to get through the rest of the day, tomorrow, 8 more weeks, two years

Will I bolo and have to repeat basic

What if the war doesn’t end time out of training

Can I kill

Will I be dead

Can I be Jesus

That narrow strip of street remains the most dreaded spot of Missouri’s massive Fort Leonard Wood. It was where we stood at attention and at ease in the morning while being told the days itinerary, did wake up exercises, and in the afternoon received mail. After day 1 the berating quieted down but not the intimidation. Sergeant Hill had visited us during our first few days at the induction center prior to boarding that bus to a different world. He said, “Men, you get over to basic it’s going to be different. I tell you right now you will never ever forget my face the rest of your life.” Slim and fit build, thin mustache, medium height, boots shined, uniform wrinkle free, jovial features which easily turned menacing, he was right about his face bit.

If there was time to kill and the hut was cleaned we would drill on the path. Sometimes with weapons. A key part to look sharp included clearing the m-16 without looking at it. The third week of training Sgt Hill disgusted at my lack of proficiency grabbed my M-16 demonstrated the 7-step procedure and then thrust the weapon as hard as he could back at me and said, your turn fuckin ass hole. I think he was at first shocked and then astounded that I could secure the weapon and carry out the routine smartly with precision.

I regained some freedom that day

Our sergeants, especially SSgt Hill relished kicking troops out of step while going to and from everywhere we went. The kicks were received in the heel of the boots. We learned quickly to stay in step with the person in front, but if he was out of step then both were likely to get it. All that kicking paid off during PT tests which included a mile run in military issue leather boots. I had one of the better times for our company something like 6 minutes.

By the time got to the rifle range we had been through 16 hours of weapon familiarization. Learned how to disassemble, assemble, clean, set sights, and drill with the 7 and a half pounds 44-inch-long M-16A1. The first day on the range was when would make sure that the weapon would hit what aimed at by zeroing it effectively. The goal being for it to do so with 18 rounds of ammunition. In full combat gear with steel helmet, gas mask carrier, canteen I laid in the prone position with legs spread and left arm supporting the M-16. After adjusting the rear and front sights I aimed the barrel at the target 200 meters away, held my breath, and squeezed the trigger. The round went nowhere near the target. I repeated the process over and over until was at the 17^th round. By this time the rest of company D had zeroed and were standing in formation waiting to march back to the barracks. Sweat poured down my face despite the 45-degree weather. Steadied, and still did not connect.

“Eveland you stupid fuck, we got 200 troops waiting to march back so give me that goddam weapon.” Sgt. Hill then preceded to zero my rifle to his specifications.  The rounds were spent, and I was stuck with a weapon zeroed to Sergeant Hill’s build and not mine.  Three times over the next few weeks our company went to the qualifying range and three times I was unable to hit the requisite 23 out of 40 targets. Everyone else had either earned a marksman or sharpshooter badge while I was still fighting to not bolo. If a score of 23 is not achieved then one must repeat basic from the beginning.

The morning of our first inspection we came back from breakfast to find all our mattresses and clothes spread out in the hut. Had a half hour to get squared away which meant scrambled like hell just to get things looking somewhat presentable. The t-shirts, socks, underwear was supposed to be folded military style meaning everything uniform and no creases. I along with several others got signaled out for not knowing how to fold clothes and make beds.

Captain’s inspection which was rare, I mean we never saw the captain hardly more than a few seconds a month, was the day to make the barracks personal kit shine. The night before while in the nearby latrine a young boy asked me if wanted boots shined for a $1. I took them off and gave them to him. An hour later Sergeant Hill came by my bunk and said, “Eveland you are missing anything?”

Snapping to attention I said, “No Drill Sergeant.” Hill then held out a pair of boots and said, “What about these, whose name you think is inside them?”I nodded affirmatively. “Get your ass over to my office now.”

Imagining the worse, thousand pushups or five days of KP I hustled over to the NCO’s hut. Upon arrival, Sarge handed me a scrapper and said, “Get the ice off my car.” That moment not getting the shit kicked out of me was the happiest one had had since the swearing-in ceremony.

Rifle qualification pau for everyone except me, training moved on to cover other aspects of combat readiness. People got excited about live fire day when you crawl under barb wire with rounds over your head. It was not a big deal though because unless you started to stand up there was no way to get hit by a bullet. I excelled on pugil stick day. Knocked down two opponents before getting head smacked by Gulick. SSgt Hill jumped in and took my stick to take the tough guy on. Gulick back stepped, Hill charged, Gulick side steeped again then bam, knocked Hill backward causing him to trip and fall hard to the ground. Sarge withered in pain, till the ambulance came and hauled him away. We got the bad news that evening, Sarge’s ankle was broken, and First class 60-year-old Waters would take over command of our platoon.

Waters had false teeth and used to take them out to relieve tension. He was mustering out soon and didn’t give a fuck anymore. Our platoon got sort of sloppy. One night, Johnson brought in a hooker. His bunk was two away from mine but I didn’t hear or know anything till the next day with the squad all abuzz. Sarge had found out, but Johnson got off with 20 pushups and a dinner’s Kp.

Bayonet drill was my favorite. Thrust right, thrust left, thrust straight ahead and up. I tore those dummies up. Grenade throwing was a little spooky but knowing that had four seconds to get rid of the device after pulling its’ pin relieved anxiety. Assembly and disassembly of the .45 within the seconds allowed was easy. Same for the gas mask routine, but it did burn the eyes. We bivouacked/camped in the snow and learned how to walk like a crab which was fun.

On a Sunday night one of the guys, gung ho to kill him some ….. returned from the weekend pass notably out of focus. Platoon leader Krakowski said, “What did you take?”

“I dunno know, 20 pills of something,”

“Stand up man we got to keep you awake.”

For the rest of the night, the squad took turns walking Feris two at a time. He in the middle and a troop on each side. He survived.

There was another troop in our company several Quonsets down who did make a serious attempt on his life during week 5 of training. Rumor was he succeeded. Upset by the news I went to the Captain’s headquarters.

“Captain, is it true that Robertson died?”

“Eveland I cannot comment on that, but you know some people are just not cut out to be soldiers. How’s your morale?”

“News of stuff like this not so good sir.”

“You think we’re too hard?”

“Yes sir, at times I do.”

“We got to make men out of you and that means tough tactics. You know you did very well on the PT test and in other training but you don’t shoot worth a damn.”

“Yes, sir will try and do better.”

“Thanks for stopping by, good luck the rest of the way.”

On Monday of our last week of basic, I got sent out to a different range. Despite knowing this was my last chance to avoid boloing I was not nervous. The idea of repeating basic was not as abhorrent as it was on zero day. This site had silhouettes which if were able to shoot down could wait for the next one to pop up, from distances ranging from 5 to 200 meters away. No need to squint the eye and breathe while pulling the trigger just had to point the weapon and blast away. I hit 35 out of 40 according to the judges, whom just happened to be from my own platoon.

The rest of the last week was bittersweet. Sergeant Hill came back to visit. He had been through an ankle fusion and was using crutches. Our platoon gave him a signed card with money. I think he cried and I also think he was proud all of us made it through.

Sergeant Waters continued telling stories with and without his teeth. The Quonset hut strip had for some time ceased to be a feared place. There was a sergeant from a different platoon, though who was bent on keeping order till the end. While waiting in line to turn in our weapon he noticed me laughing and threatened to stick my “motherfucking worthless ass” in a garbage can. He sure as hell said it like he meant it. I stopped laughing.

As basic came down to the last day we who were draftees learned of our next assignment. Handed out while gathered on the asphalt mine was advanced infantry training with the notice that would be flying south to Fort Polk that night in the belly of a C-130.

Fear reclaimed

***

“Look to your left,” said Sergeant Major Klein. “Now look to your right,” us 200 strong did so as ordered. “One is no doubt a rapist and the other a murderer. You are the scum of the earth standing in the armpit of the world. Welcome to Fort Polk Louisiana, Advanced Infantry training, Company E.”

It was 2:30 am, we had just gotten off the bus from the runway and I was thinking holy crap here we go again. But no kicked us, pulled out facial hair or screamed. We were dismissed to our two-story barracks with their own latrines. Our sergeants were recent ranger school graduates, most of them the same age as us draftees. They were cool.

I learned to fire lots of weapons, including the M-60 caliber machine gun while charging up John Wayne Hill. That was more fun than the weekend pass used to go to Mardi Gras. The bivouac was for 4 days. The highlight was war games on the final night. The group I was with got totally lost trying to locate enemy headquarters,. Search vehicles found us hours after the game ended.

All through infantry training we pulled guard duty three or more times a week. One to two hours at a time anywhere from 10 pm to dawn. One middle of the night I came back without my bayonet. Was worried as heck that might get court-martialed or something. I reported it missing to the armory as soon as my shift was over but nothing happened. I don’t know if the next person on duty found it or what, but no one said a word further about it.

The last week of Infantry Top Sergeant called me out of formation and said if you want to be a medic get your ass over to the hospital now. During my interview, Captain Ramsey said, “Eveland did you know your scores are outstanding on the AMIT?”

“They are?”

“Yes, you are like an Einstein or something. You want to be a Physical Therapy assistant class medic?”

“Yes sir,” I said despite knowing he must have been full of it.

That afternoon packed my duffle and checked in to the wooden two-story WW11 hospital enlisted personnel barracks, with few windows and no air conditioning. The floors had worn linoleum tile, with single beds spread out in its open bay. The rest of the week got pressed to join the baseball team of which the PT sarge was the coach and it soon became apparent that was the only reason he wanted me in his clinic. There was no need for me as the clinic was loaded with plenty of ballplayers and very few patients. The nearby orthopedic clinic though was swamped so when Captain asked if I would like to train to be an ortho man I went.

I also moved to a different barracks. The troops on the second floor I was assigned to worked swing shift which meant they played cards and soul music from 10 Pm to 3 am every night. Some of them I would get to know well a few months later as a member of the hospital basketball team but that first week I could hardly function due to lack of sleep. At the other barracks was on the bottom floor with guys who worked days so all was good.

The base hospital has long since been torn down and replaced with what looks like a standard civilian facility. The old hospital had character though. It was a meandering one-story structure spread out over several acres with a labyrinth of walkways. No air conditioning in the hospital either. Upon entering the clinic was a narrow walkway with Doctor offices on each side for 50 feet before coming upon the waiting and reception area. Behind that was where I earned my military occupational 91-H classification as an Orthopedic technician medic.

***

“Hi, Jim Riddle here, going to show you how to do a cast so practice on Benny.”

“Okay.” I said somewhat nervously.”

“First wrap from three inches below the knee toward the foot with this roll of cotton felt, make it tight but not too tight. Good, now take another roll of felt and wrap the foot the way you would use an ace wrap for a sprained ankle. Make sure you cover the heel completely and work your way up to just beneath the toes. The toes need to be able to wiggle. All right fine, now take a 4” roll of plaster and dip in the utility sink’s bucket of cold water, ring it out and start applying on top of the cotton form below the knee. You got to work a little faster Dave, or otherwise, the plaster will not be pliable enough. Smooth it out as you go, that’s it. Benny, how’s it feel?”

“He’s going to need a lot of practice.”

Within a couple of weeks, I was adept at plaster of pairs cast application. We had plenty of practice as every troop from North Fort who came into Ortho with a swollen ankle left with a short leg cast applications. Some after initial immobilization got rubber stoppers added to the bottom of the foot. Those were tricky to place just right, and most of those who received walked too much with them. Full leg casts for troops and dependents who had knee surgery or their knee aspirated also made up a big chunk of business. Those were much simpler to apply, and more fun to cut off with the buzz saw too. I was happy in Ortho, the days were full of filling work orders, getting supplies, and clean up. My whites and skin were usually full of plaster.

SSgt, Riddle, a Cherokee from California, had done two tours as a combat medic in Vietnam. He was of medium build, had jet black hair, a pockmarked face and possessed a friendly demeanor with a ready smile. He took me to the NCO club a few times. On several occasions, he would come by the barracks late in the evening to ask for money as his had run out. One time he showed up with two MP’s. They asked if I would drive James off base so I did. As soon as we passed the guard shack Sarge said, “Thanks Dave, you can get out now,” and slid on over to the driver side while I headed out on the long walk back to the hospital.

Riddle put me up for promotions as soon as became eligible for them. My pay eventually jumped from the E-1 $75 a month to that of an E-4 at $375. Jim taught me how to do minor surgical procedures so could assist the Orthopedists in routine clinical procedures. We had four of them, Dr. Hamsa a hand specialist, and a burly giant of a man from Montana went to high school with Evil Knievel and played football at Nebraska. Dr. Majestro, tall and slim with dark glasses had a gig with the Detroit Lions. Dr. McPherson was fresh out of medical school and Dr. Gomez had gone through training in his native Peru.

A distraught Mother showed up one day with her 5 years old son who had somehow gotten a foreign object in his left wrist. I was assisting Dr. Gomez during examination as he probed with a surgical knife when he said, “oops,” just before the boy started screaming, and then said to me, “tourniquet stat.”

The Mom upon noticing blood coming out in spurts from where Doc had cut the artery started screaming louder than the son. I grabbed the medical tubing off the cabinet and after tying off kept the boy's hand held straight up. The situation got under control, and the boy bandaged was sent off. He probably still has the foreign object in his wrist though.

The other three docs in ortho gave anesthetic injections prior to knee aspirations but Gomez never did. Many would yell. Gomez didn’t do a local for spinal taps either.

One lunch break, Hamsa asked Sergeant Riddle, “Where is the most unusual place you ever had sex?”

James answered, “back of a Greyhound.”

“The bus!” Man got to hand it to you.”

Riddle was something of a lady’s man. He was fooling around with the secretary at the pharmacy who was married to a sergeant. So, it was a surprise when he invited us to his wedding to a Cajun woman from Lafayette. The wedding was at a bayou’s cypress swamp location and the party carried on well into the next day.  Didn’t stop his dalliance with the secretary, however.

Our clinic’s secretary was married to the hospital top sergeant. She asked me to help repair some shingles on a f friends roof one weekend. It wasn’t a big job but the friend was very grateful as her husband was in Vietnam, and she had a baby boy to take care of and the roof had been leaking. She invited me to come over for dinner. I was surprised upon arrival at being the only guest. We chatted a bit ate dinner and then she said, “let me slip on something a little more comfortable.”

A few minutes later sitting close to each other on her couch she asked, “You have a sweetheart David?”

“Kind of but not really.”

“She broke your heart?”

I stared off into space and said, “Yep.”

The boy cried from a bedroom and she said, “Let me get little Andy off to sleep, and will be right back.”

I waited several minutes, then walked over to the bedroom door and said, “Thanks for dinner, I’ll let myself out.”

The next morning at the clinic Top’s wife said, “Baby goes to sleep and you decide to leave!”

The clinic had a little surprise party for me my last week in the Army. Clinic chief, Majestro could not get over I was mustering out as he had not heard me counting the days down like most draftees did. I was sad to say goodbye to Riddle. He was the best permanent duty Sarge I could have ever hoped for. Three months later he was shotgunned to death, caught in the act by an enraged husband. Louisiana law being what was at the time did not press charges.

***

Next to my bunk in the open bay of the ground floor, day shift medics was EKG tech Carlos Montoya, from Albuquerque New Mexico. We had similar interests including Castaneda’s tales and Heinlein’s water people and soon became good friends. When a private room on the upper floor became available Carlos, being a stripe higher than the rest of us got the room and he brought me along, there were two beds perpendicular to each other, a window, two five-foot vertical lockers and enough space for a small desk. After living in open bays for half a year it mise as well been a four seasons suite.

One early Sunday morning, people outside in the by yelled out “Cap and Smiths Meyer pulling surprise inspection next door coming here next.”

‘Holy crap man we gotta get this shit put away,” said Carlos.

15 minutes later in walked Captain Rumsfeld and Sergeant Smiths Meyer, beds made floor swept we had hustled like mad to get the room picked up. Then Smiths Meyer said “Eveland open your locker.” As I did so a basketball rolled out from the top shelf and hit Cap in the face. “Goddamn it Eveland,” Sarge bellowed but nonetheless we all laughed.

Carlos got a car that summer. We made trips to the Leesville levee to swim with red cross ladies, deep sea fishing in Galveston, cousin’s wedding with stolen bride in Dallas, and ate lots of $1 watermelon off roadsides. Assisted local USO picnic and Christmas events for orphan youth. The female director had a thing for Governor Edwin Edwards, so when a parade was held with him as the Grand Marshall we held up high the USO banner as he waved and winked from his convertible.

The two of us organized a hospital volleyball team. As some of the Docs had played in college we were competitive. The fort had a track team pulling talent from the whole base for regional meets. Carlos and I had been running a few months alongside the railroad tracks so when the flyer announced could leave work early for team workouts we signed up. Pulled muscles within the first few days of training, however, put a quick end to that endeavor.

***

In those days troops could fly anywhere standby. I made trips to Kansas City to visit brother Paul and Lani, Wisconsin to see camp friends, two weeks in Hawai`i with brother John and Iowa for Christmas. Often got bumped up to first class. Shreveport’s airport shut down at night and one time failed to get on a plane. The security people let me sleep on the carpet in the gate area.

Mid May 1973 flew up to Milwaukee to head out on an 8-day canoe trip with Wawbeek friend Ron Falkner. I had won the prize for traveling the farthest when showed up for his and Arlene’s wedding the year before, and that was when we started planning this trip. While packing our Duluth rucksacks in their living room floor Arlene said, “So, Dave you been to the Quetico many times, right?”

“Nope, never been, I know how to canoe though.”

She turned to Ron to say, “I thought you said he’d been there often!”

We had a great trip, early in the season, shot some rapids, slept on islands, Ron caught plenty of fish and we went days without seeing anyone else.

***

Carlos and I continued to explore Louisiana. Wondrous areas to camp were found in the Kisatchie National Forest in the northern part of the state. Set amid Piney hills and hardwood bottoms with the Saline Bayou river meandering through was special. One night after tying off my $3 open-ended tube tent between two trees Carlos said, “hey you think Nixon is going to survive till 76?”

“He better not.”

“That was pretty funny that time we told those McNeese state girls that we were working for McGovern.”

“Well was your idea to go up the dorm front desk to get them to announce that there were two guys wanting dates to the homecoming dance.”

“the door to the reception must have opened and shut a dozen times till Betsy came out.”

“Yeah, I know, first thing she said was my Daddy said to stay away from those fort boys you not from Fort Polk, are you?”

“And you one lucky dog Betsy grabbed your hand soon as we walked out the door, and not the her freind that grabbed mine.”

“You said your name was Chewy Montoya, you think they believed we weren’t soldiers?”

“Hell no.”

The owl in the tree we tied off on started to hoot.

“Carlos, you ever think you missed out not going to Vietnam.”

“Nah, my Mom couldn’t take living through what she did with Dad.”

“Death march survivor, right?”

“Yep plus four years prisoner of war of the Japanese, and you?”

“My oldest brother US marine Da Nang, told me years ago don’t volunteer and don’t go if you don’t have too.”

“Why he say that?”

“Exact words were people like you end up shot or dead.”

“So that’s why you waited for the draft?”

“Sure was.”

“Got to admit our duty station has been all right though uh?”

“Yep could say that again.”

There were 1.8 million draftees during the Vietnam era. By the time they got me the war was hugely unpopular. Everyone that knew that signed on early to increase chances of a favorable MOS had a low lottery number. That’s what Carlos had done so when came time for me to muster out in the fall of 1973 he still had 9 more months to go. The night before I left the reserves in for annual summer camp were having a party in the barracks next door complete with booze, music, and strippers. I didn’t go. Weekend warriors never invited us regulars to their gigs. We made plans for him to bring girlfriend Loidie up to my school in Colorado in the spring, and said goodbye.

***

The fall of 1966, my senior year of high school, American Government Teacher Mr. Heavener had our class study the history of South East Asia and that of Vietnam during the 20^th Century. US aid to the French in their efforts to retain their colony, the eventual partition, and then our nation’s continual involvement up to at the time 350000 troop level. The fate of neighboring Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand, if we pulled out, was also examined. Heavener let each of us draw our own conclusion as to the war effort, and my thoughts as such being a huge mistake paralleled the rest of the class. I also reckoned that the conflict would surely be resolved by the time I would if ever get drafted.

Muscatine kid time I had a friend, named Gary Brookhart who lived a few blocks away. He went to our church and we used to stage battles with our hundreds of three inches tall army men. Some of them carried bazookas, others flamethrowers, some marching, some prone. We had several sleepovers staying up half the night probing, attacking, ambushing. As got older there were numerous one on one basketball games in the alleyway. Gary got selected for school teams when I got cut, but I could hold my own in the backyard. He volunteered right after finishing high school in 1967 and was shot dead I the war zone a year later. In 1984 when the wall was new I took a picture of his name and sent to Mrs. Brookhart. Replicas of the wall were not traveling in those days and she was very appreciative to have the photo.

Lanny York was in our Muscatine church orchestra. I went to his wedding in May 1970, Lanny had just finished university AFROTC was resplendent in his uniform. The fall of 1972 he crashed in Quant tri province year and died from burns.  He was 45 days away from completing his tour. More n likely his squadron added to the tonnage of bombs already dropped on Cambodia and Laos. Lanny performed his duty nobly but I held a grudge towards Nixon and Kissinger who ordered more destruction from the air on Vietnam’s neighbors than what the allies hit Germany with during all of WW 11. Lanny’s Mom and Dad visited Hawaii in their later years and as we walked in Kapiolani Park, Mary told me of the time it took to heal from her Lanny’s death and how she felt sadness for all the other 58000+ killed. “What a waste,” was how she described it.

I did not want to go and fight in Vietnam, yet I did not want to live with myself if shirked responding to a draft notice. With a lottery number 6, I knew such was inevitable as soon as my student deferment ended. With so many people dying I knew it was selfish to not want to give up my freedom for two years, but the thought of not being able to work or go where wanted to go was bothersome. Due to some sort of computer glitch, the Army delayed draft notices that would have gone out in the spring of 1971 to that fall. After a summer at camp, I wandered aimlessly for two months. Freeloaded off friends in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Missouri, hitchhiked, grew a beard and hoped for some sort of draft ending miracle.

Canada or card burning got slight but not serious consideration. I reported as ordered which led to the day described at the first of this chapter. Overall, though I am glad that was in the Army. I learned much from all my Sergeants and am appreciative of each of them, especially DI Hill and SSGT Riddle. My father in law, the flying tiger with over 300 missions, perhaps eventually accepted me as worthy in part due to my past military service. I used the GI bill to get my Master’s and we bought our first house with a VA loan.

I also learned that the South is a beautiful area of the country. Southern Magnolia and Weeping Willow trees, dogwood blossoms, warm waters of the gulf, and piney woods entranced. Confederate flags and shotguns common sights but most of the people seemed to be no more racist than anywhere else in the country. They were just more open about it. I got to work with people of a different background and ethnicity than me. Hospital basketball teammates included former college players from historically black colleges, and they welcomed me to eat with them in the mess hall.

Finally, I gained a best friend for life in one Francis Carlos Montoya, and am fortunate that in subsequent years got to spend quality time with his wife, children, parents, brothers and sisters.

So, lots of evidence that those two years when young which at the time I thought the Army was robbing me of were not a theft after all.  And yet...