Weekday Warriors: part 1 - First Daze

Weekday Warriors

Part 1 – First Daze

By

Mike Brown

Published by BigPencilGroup on Smashwords

Weekday Warriors Part1 – First Daze Copyright © 2011 by Mike Brown

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June 21, 1975

I staggered down off the Greyhound on that syrup muggy Kentucky evening and froze, staring at a tank parked across the street. Since I was getting off the Greyhound at Ft Knox, Kentucky, also known as the United States Army Armor Training Center and School, I guess the tank shouldn’t have been quite such a big surprise. In my own defense, I have to admit I was higher than a kite at the time…

Behind me I heard a Whoops! and someone piled into my back. I dropped my flight bag and went face-down on the asphalt under that same someone’s weight.

Oh, jeez, I’m sorry man! The other guy got up off me and I rolled over to see my new friend Jake Leibermann offering me a hand up. You all right?

Uh, yeah, I’m cool. I grabbed my flight bag and we both stepped out of the way. I pointed across the street and continued to stare at the tank. Check that out.

Wow! Now it was Jake’s turn to stare. He was a little Jewish guy from New York. About a head shorter than me, dark hair, silver wire frame glasses and kind of reminded me of Woody Allen with just a dash of Bugs Bunny. Is that one of the one’s we’ll be on? He asked without taking his eyes off it. A voice behind us started laughing.

Maybe if you end up in Israel like you were talkin’ about earlier, man, Our mutual new friend Andy Pritchardt chuckled as he caught up with us. My old man says the Israeli’s still run some Shermans, he nodded towards the parked tank. but we quit usin’ those back during the Korean War. Andy was about my height, the typical California Kid: Tanned with sun-bleached reddish blond hair and a kind of lop-sided grin. He even knew how to surf!

The Israeli’s still use Shermans? I knew enough about tanks even then to be a bit skeptical. It was, after all, 1975. Why?

Mostly ‘cuz they still run, I guess. Andy shrugged. They call ‘em Ishermans. Got a 90mm or a 105 crammed into the turret. They put ‘em in neutral when they fire an’ the whole tank rolls back about five feet. The old man says if you give the IDF half a chance, they’ll put a 90mm cannon on a fuckin’ bicycle. They got lots of newer stuff, but they use everything they got ‘til it dies.

I guess that’s what you do when you’re surrounded, huh? Jake remarked.

Pretty much, man. Andy nodded

The three of us met while we were waiting for the Greyhound from the airport in Louisville, Kentucky. Other than the facts that we were all three white and eighteen years old, we had one thing in common.

We were all three going to be tank crewmen.

We discovered this and a lot of other stuff about each other during a long, sometimes very disjointed conversation held sitting in a clump of Scotch broom bushes on a vacant lot not far from the airport in Louisville. Andy had some pot with him and wanted to smoke it up before we got on the bus to Fort Knox. I’d never been much for smoking pot. The potheads I knew tended to be the kind of guys who would bust off bolts by twisting the wrench the wrong direction. Apparently Jake had never smoked pot, period. But we both decided to help.

There was just one little problem.

The pot in question was some of the strongest knock-you-on-your-butt Thai pot around instead of the basic leafy green Mexican stuff I’d smoked a few times in high school…

For seventy-five cents we caught a clapped out orange Checker Marathon post cab from the bus station over to Reception. The Reception Station was part of a large area of long one and two story white wood buildings with green trim that had probably been built before or during World War II. Guys in fatigues and some in civilian clothes wandered the area or hung out around the raised wooden porches at the entrances to the two story barracks buildings. In the headquarters building, a small one story building about the size of a small house, a big black guy in fatigues took our files. His name tag said Martell. He was a Staff Sergeant E-6. By the Smokey the Bear hat on the desk I assumed he was a Drill Sergeant.

My Uncle Dean had warned me about this. You said Yes, Drill Sergeant! or No, Drill Sergeant!. You did it loudly and clearly. Unless he asked you something, you kept your mouth shut as much as possible. Andy had said the same thing, but he didn't take his own advice.

Without getting up, Martell tossed our manila envelopes full of documents in a basket on a table next to the desk. Armor, armor, armor. His chair creaked as he leaned back, sighed and stared at the ceiling, Don't nobody go Infantry any more?

This is Ft Knox, Drill Sergeant, Andy grinned at him, Some Armor type Drill Sergeant is probably sitting in the Reception Office at Ft Lost in the Woods saying the same thing about crunchies.

Probably. Martell blinked and looked at Andy with a certain amount of suspicion. How the hell would you know that, trainee?

He's an Army brat. Jake said, turning to Andy, obviously too loaded to have listened. Did I get that right? he asked, turning back to the Drill Sergeant. Anyway, he knows all about the Army.

He does, huh? Martell stood up and put his hat on. WELL WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU, TRAINEE!

Jake jumped back a couple of inches. I'm sorry. he squeaked.

Martell came around the desk and walked up in front of Jake. For a guy I'd have thought was pissed, there was a look of remarkable calm and patience on his face. Try `I'm sorry, Drill Sergeant', trainee.

I...I'm sorry, Drill Sergeant.

Much better, trainee. He turned to Andy. Army brat?

Yeah, Andy nodded. my old man was a Company Commander with one of the AIT battalions up in Disneyland for a year when I was a kid.

Then you know how things are done here.

Sure. Andy nodded again. This’s almost like comin’ home, man.

All right, Martell paused for a split second. THEN DROP AND KNOCK ME OUT TWENTY, TRAINEE!

Andy blinked, looked at the Drill Sergeant for a second, and then it was like popping the clutch on the Goat. Andy slammed into motion, dropping down and into what we learned to call the Front Leaning Rest Position. He began to do pushups, counting them off loudly. One, Drill Sergeant! Two, Drill Sergeant! He went on until he hit twenty, then stopped without getting up.

Permission to Recover, Drill Sergeant?

Recover! Martell snapped. Welcome home, trainee.

As Andy stood up, Martell came over and stood almost nose to nose with me. You got anything to say, trainee? He barked.

No, Drill Sergeant.

Finally, a half-assed smart one.

Chapter Two

At 0500 the next morning Martell came in, flipped on the lights and informed us, at concert hall volume, that we had fifteen minutes to be outside.

Outside we learned when and how to fall into formation.

When was simple. Any time anyone with any authority screamed FALL IN! or some variation on the theme. Blowing a whistle worked too.

How to do so was a bit more complex. In Reception, there were some rows of yellow footprints painted on the asphalt outside the barracks and mess hall to use as guides. Martell broke us down into squads and designated squad leaders. The squad leaders fall in one behind the other and the rest of the squad falls in to the squad leaders left. We also learned the basics of Drill and Ceremony, better known as marching. Rule number one: You ALWAYS step off with your right foot. If you forgot, they gave you a rock to carry around in your right hand. A BIG rock.

The whole in-processing process itself was a blur of activity: paperwork, haircuts, more paperwork, shots, still more paperwork, uniforms, dog tags, even more paperwork, photos and ID cards and most of all, paperwork. It brought the meaning of the classic cliché phrase Hurry up and wait home. We’d march some place, then stand around for an hour as whatever process we were going through was accomplished one guy at a time. Each with it’s own attendant form or forms to be processed.

During Day 1 of in-processing we were standing around outside the barbershop. Haircuts were an experience to say the least. They even made you pay $2 for the privilege. The barber sat you down in the chair, took an electric clipper with the shortest guide they make on it and shaved you right down the middle of your head to a stubble about 1/8th of an inch long, then did the rest of your head. I suddenly had a great deal of sympathy for how a wheat field must feel just after the combines pass over it.

Individually it was a short process. Collectively, it took a while. Martell had told us we could take a break in place outside. There was a small PX across the street with a bank of vending machines out front. Andy, Jake and I went across the street to get sodas. We came back across the street and found a patch of shade around the side of the barbershop. Once we were sat down, Andy pulled a Marlboro hard pack out of his pocket, produced his lighter and lit up.

A lot of the guys in our group smoked. I’d never been a smoker. Mom didn’t like them. She said they stunk up the house and were bad for you. So other than sheer boredom I have no idea why I asked Andy for a cigarette. Andy merely nodded wordlessly and passed me the pack and lighter. I got one out, managed to get it lit without lighting the end of my nose on fire and passed the pack back. Jake looked on from the other side. As Andy went to put the pack away Jake tapped him on the arm.

Andy glanced at him. You want one, too?

Jake nodded. Andy shrugged and handed over his smokes. To my own personal amazement, I never coughed. I don’t recall Jake coughing either. By the end of the day between Jake and myself we were into Andy for about a half a pack of cigarettes. Whenever Martell gave us a break or said ‘the smoking lamp is lit’ Andy just handed us the pack.

From haircuts we went straight to uniform issue. Uniform issue was all done in a huge warehouse. You strip to your shorts and t-shirt and put your street clothes in a paper bag. The first thing they issue you is a green canvas duffle bag about four feet deep and a foot and a half across with padded shoulder straps like a backpack. Once your sizes are determined, it’s sort of like going through a buffet line. You walk through the warehouse past various clerks holding your duffle bag open Each clerk you come to looks at your paperwork and another armload of stuff gets crammed into your duffle bag. By the time you get it all crammed in the duffle bag weighs about forty pounds.

The Class A Dress uniform (Winter or Summer) is basically a two-piece suit: jacket and pants. Instead of just giving you a size, they actually measure you for it. When we filed through to get our dress uniforms, Jake got his first. He stood and watched when Andy and me were fitted in our jackets. The civilian clerk went into a forest of racks, came out and tossed us each a jacket. Mine felt kind of small, especially short in the sleeves and Andy's fit like a tent. Jake tsk'ed loudly and walked up to the clerk.

Excuse me, but those aren’t good fits, either of them. He said politely to the clerk. The clerk was a greasy looking middle aged white guy about Jakes height, dressed in wrinkled gray civilian slacks held up by suspenders, a white dress shirt with the collar open and sleeves rolled up, a little black skullcap on the back of his head and a tailors measuring tape draped around his neck.

Ahm the fuckin’ fittuh heah, kid. He snarled in a thick Southern drawl around a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Don' tell me mah goddam job. Beat it.

You call yourself a fitter? Jake snarled right back. Where did you learn to fit, in Chelm ? In New York, for my father, you wouldn’t fit trashcans for plastic bags!

Chelm?! The guy jumped about two inches, Why you little... You got a lotta nerve! Who tha hell you think YOU are, givin' me that kinda lip?

Somebody who knows his tochis from his elbow, that's who I am!

What seems to be the problem here? a voice rumbled behind us. It was Drill Sergeant Martell.

We all snapped to attention. Martell walked up to Jake and looked down at him. Well? I'm waiting for an explanation, troop, he said in a remarkably conversational bullhorn-like tone of voice. If you got a problem, say so. Nobody’s gonna bite your head off.

Jake swallowed hard and glanced at us. Andy nodded slightly, so Jake pointed at us. Drill Sergeant, these uniform jackets don't fit right. I don't know much about the Army yet, but I do know if a suit coat fits or not.

He's talkin 'shit, sarge. The clerk waved a hand like he was swatting at a fly.

Oh, am I? Jake toed one of those roll around stools over to us and standing on it behind Andy, he reached out and grabbed a handful of fabric on each shoulder. Andy here is a big healthy guy, but these shoulders need football pads to fill them. I could probably cut enough fabric out of this to make a pair of pants, or at least a vest.

He stepped down and moved over to me. On the other hand we have Pat. I doubt there's enough fabric here to let the side seams out enough to make it comfortable, and these sleeves are hopeless.Sergean These are all wrong Drill Sergeant. If you give me something close, I can make these guys look like recruiting posters.

He's talkin’ shit, sarge. The clerk repeated. He can't do nuthin’.

Wanna bet? Jake asked. He stepped down behind me. I felt his fingertips sliding across my shoulder blades, then down my spine from my collar. Right arm out straight, please. I obeyed and his fingers spanned down the underside of my arm to where my cuffs would be. I think we need a 42 long here.

He quickly stepped over to Andy and repeated the process. This one's a 44 regular. No, Jake stood there looking at Andy’s shoulders for a moment, then ran his hand down Andy’s spine again, thumb and pinky finger spread. Make that a 44 long.

The clerk looked from Jake to Drill Sergeant Martell. The Drill Sergeant nodded at him and he disappeared into the racks, coming out with the requested sizes. When we tried them on the basic fit was much better. My sleeves were a bit too long this time.

See? Jake said turning from me to Martell. A tuck here, a cut there, a few stitches, perfect, with room for changes later. With a sewing kit and a steam iron, I could do it myself in about an hour.

Well, The clerk shook his head slowly. Ah will be damned. He shook his had again and shrugged. Ah will be damned. He took the wrong jackets and went back into the racks with another shrug.

Okay people, pack 'em up and move along. Martell pointed at us. How do you know so much about fitting clothes, kid?He asked, impressed with Jakes work.

My family's in the men’s wear business back home in New York, Drill Sergeant. Jake replied. I've been around this kind of stuff all my life, kind of like Andy growing up around the Army. I used to help the tailors at our store after school. I must have measured a couple of thousand guys for prom or bar mitzvah tuxes this spring alone.

How about yours?

Mine's all right, Drill Sergeant. Jake tugged lightly at his lapels and a sleeve end as the clerk came back out and waved the next guys over. Close enough for jazz.

When we got finished and put on our OD fatigues for the first time, Martell asked Jake what he thought.

These are work clothes, Drill Sergeant. Jake pulled at the front of his shirt and tugged the side seam on his left leg. A suit's supposed to be fitted. These are supposed to be a little looser, so you can move around and do stuff in them you wouldn't do in a suit.

Very true. Martell smiled and nodded. And you'll be finding out all about that in a day or so. Well done, troop.

Ah... I... Thank you, Drill Sergeant!

The next evening after chow, Martell held a formation in front of our barracks.

Tomorrow you will be moving over to your Basic Training Company, where you will be for roughly the next six and a half weeks. He held up a stack of papers. This is a list of all the little odds and ends you will need in Basic. Normally, your Drill Sergeants will get you to a PX within the first day or so, but in the Army it is always a good idea to be prepared ahead of time. I suggest you all make a trip to the PX up the street and pick up anything on this list that you do not already have. He handed the papers to our squad leaders who passed them down the line. You might also take advantage of this chance to call home or have one more cold soda. Your access to the phone and to crap like candy and pop will be severely limited for at least the next two to three weeks. Do NOT try to cram a bunch of candy into your duffle bag, your new Drill Sergeant WILL find it and all your buddies will get to eat it while you do push-ups. Dismissed.

I looked at my copy of the list. Most of it was basic stuff I’d packed ahead of time; toothpaste, boot polish, stamps, stationary. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to bring padlocks. Boot blousers, sort of like miniature OD green bungee cords, were good for not only blousing your pants in the proper uniform fashion, as opposed to tucking them into your boot tops, but for a multitude of other little jobs as well. Pocket sized notepads and ballpoint pens for taking notes in classes. Also, after basic issue the Army expected you to buy stuff like rank insignia. I had Delayed Enlisted far enough ahead of time that I was actually a Private E-2, which meant I rated a single chevron of rank insignia (a ‘mosquito wing’) on my fatigue uniform collars and cap. Basic Issue had included two sets of pin on rank insignia for fatigues; the list suggested six or eight more sets. Little stuff I’d never have thought of without Martells list.

I tried to call Carol before we went inside, but the line was busy. I talked to my folks for a minute, but with over a hundred guys waiting to use half a dozen payphones, I didn’t want to take long. I went inside and shopped my way through the sea of OD green bodies and shaved heads. Jake and I finished up at about the same time.

While at the PX I also bought a carton of Marlboro cigarettes in the hard-pack boxes, a Zippo cigarette lighter, flints and a can of lighter fluid. Jake did the same. Outside, we both sort of looked at each other and shrugged as we lit up.

When in Rome. Jake said, eyeing his smoke.

We took Martells advice about the pop, too and picked up a couple of cold Cokes out of the vending machine then headed back to our barracks. We sat down on the steps, drank our pop and smoked in silence. Finally Jake turned to me and raised his Coke can in a toast.

As Shakespeare once said ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends’.

I was no Shakespeare buff, but I’d heard that one before. I nodded and tapped my can against his. More like as Harry Nillson said, ‘Jump into the fire’.

You’re probably right. Jake sighed and dropped his smoke into the red painted coffee can half full of water next to the door that served as an ashtray. I followed suit. We went inside and tried to sleep.

Chapter Three

After breakfast we shouldered our bags, formed up and marched a mile or so to our Basic Training company. I’d had a sort of slightly ‘lost’ feeling ever since we’d arrived. Being thoroughly ripped probably hadn’t helped. It was a vague, disoriented feeling. Not bad, just different. The exact opposite of ‘déjà vu’: A feeling that you have never been in a place even remotely like this before. Rows upon rows of low, one and two story white buildings, everything orderly and precise. Identical haircuts, clothes, everything. A different world.

Our new ‘home’ for the next few weeks turned out to be a bit of a surprise. We weren’t in the old wooden World War Two era barracks like those in Reception, generally referred to as Splinterville. Our barracks was one of a dozen gray three story concrete