One in a Hundred

Copyright ©1999 by John W. Leeger.

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Contents

COLUMBIA

YOU’RE IN

THE ARMY NOW….

BASIC TRAINING

HAND-TO-HAND

SKINNY

BREAKUP

GAMES SOLDIERS PLAY

GRADUATION

MONTEREY

SERGEANT ANDERSON

GAMEELA HADRANI

BARRACKS

BLOOD DRIVE

SUSIE SCHROEDER

SAYYED AL-YAMANI

CARL STEPHENSON

AL AND SUSIE DAWES

MATT ADAMS

CANDY

SPRING BREAK

LAGUNA SECA

MONTEREY POP FESTIVAL

MOTORCYCLE

RE-QUALIFYING WITH THE M14

THE GLASS MENAGERIE

SERGEANT BAKER

CONCOURS

CHRISTMAS BREAK

GRADUATION

AYER

COLD

RADIO TRAFFIC ANALYSIS

GHOST

BOB LAWRENCE

MARCHING TO CLASS

NEW YORK (JUST LIKE I PICTURED IT?)

WORCESTER GIRLS

DITTY BOPPERS

CODE WORD FUNNIES

KENNEBUNKPORT

ASSIGNMENTS

ASMARA

FROM THE 3RD CENTURY…

KAGNEW STATION

TRACT C

PREVENTIVE MEDICINE—ARMY STYLE

NEIL BILLINGSLEY

LIEUTENANT GRAHAM

BRIDGE

R & R

NOW THAT’S ITALIAN

A HORSE IS A HORSE

HELP

JOHN AND SALLY THROW A PARTY

CHRISTMAS CONCERT

CHORAL MUSIC RETREAT

MARK WILKINS

TALENT CONTEST

RE-QUALIFYING

PROMOTION

JOHANNESUE

BEGGARS

L.T. HARTMAN

SMOKE SIGNALS

CHICKENSHIT

BLOODY SHAME

TOM AND MONROE

RE-UP

RAINY SEASON

APOLLO

CONGRESSIONAL

MEN OF CHAPEL RETREAT

SERGEANT KRUGER

CRITICS

ZAP!

YOU KNOW I CAN’T HEAR YOU

BACK TO THE USA

ALEXANDRIA

VIRGINIA VILLAGE

CHERYL ANN GREEN

PARTY NEXT DOOR

MUSIC & ARTS

CHARLIE LOCKS UP

RAG TIME

PUNNING OUR LIVES AWAY

HARD BOILED

HAND GRENADE

MIKE’S

MEDICAL

WILL AND WENDY JONES

GEORGE MALAYTER

SUMMER

GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME

ETS

EPILOGUE

NOTES

FOR MY PARENTS.

Many of the characters in this book are

based upon people who may still be living.

Names have been changed to protect their privacy.

COLUMBIA

YOU’RE IN

THE ARMY NOW….

Greetings:

In the summer of 1966, like thousands of other guys, I received my official letter from Uncle Sam. Mine, however, arrived the day after I took delivery of a brand new 1966 Pontiac GTO convertible. It was just what I needed. I looked for some way to get into Navy music. Or Army music. Or any music. But it was not to be. So the Army Security Agency seemed like the next best bet: my friendly recruiter volunteered that only the top 10% were allowed into the ASA. I figured that in such company, the extra two years would be little enough in trade for the assurance that I would probably get out alive. Well….Maybe….

Realizing that a monthly car payment of $104.00 would be difficult on a starting salary of $90.60, I asked around to determine what to do. Everyone gave me the same advice: call the dealer, and see if he would take the car back (keeping my $750.00 down payment, of course) and preserve my good credit rating. The dealer was very understanding; said it happens all the time. So on my way to Basic Training, I drove to the dealer and gave the car to them. Goodbye to civilian life: You’re in the Army, now.

Fort Jackson, South Carolina, was everything I had expected of an Army Basic Training camp—and then some! I reported in on August 26, so it was hot, and of course, there was no air conditioning. They lined us up and introduced us to the man who would be our god for the next eight or ten weeks. His name was Sergeant Williams, but we were to call him nothing other than Drill Sergeant—and that at the top of our lungs. He was not a tall man, about five feet six inches, but he was quick to assure us that he was the meanest SOB any of us had ever encountered. He looked age-less—as though he had been 35 years old for a century. His uniform was so heavily starched that it squeaked. Even in the field during the weeks to come, he always looked like he had just put on a fresh uniform.

They marched us over to the barber shop for the ritual shearing. I wore my hair short at that time, so it wasn’t too much of a shock for me, but some of the guys had conniptions! I couldn’t believe the amount of hair that was piled around the chairs. One of the objectives of Basic Training, of course, is to remove all traces of individuality. And that haircut was the first big leveler! Everyone looked a whole lot sillier than they had when they arrived—and a whole lot more like everyone else.

Next we were marched to our barracks. The building must have been built before the First World War, but it was immaculate. There were two floors. Each had one large open room. The downstairs room held two rows of six bunk beds. At one end was a bathroom (which we now had to learn to call the latrine or the head) that was equipped with a trough urinal, four toilets, and six sinks, as well as a shower room with six faucets. We found that modesty was not to be encouraged—everyone watched everyone else do everything. At the other end of the lower level were two small rooms for the Drill Sergeants. Upstairs there were rooms for the squad leaders over the latrine. That left space in the big room up there for two rows of eight bunk beds. Sixty of us were to share this one little building! It turned out not to be too much of an inconvenience, however, as the only things we did in there were sleep, use the bathroom (Oops! Sorry—I meant the latrine, of course.), and clean up. We found that everything was to be highly organized, and clean, oh so clean! If there were such a thing, we would have earned a Ph.D. in cleaning by the time we got out of Basic Training.

We were told that our Basic Training course wouldn’t start for two weeks, but the Army had things for us to do. There was plenty of KP (Kitchen Police) duty to go around. We peeled potatoes, washed dishes, loaded the milk dispensers, and generally did everything but cook. Some of us were even lucky enough to get to clean out the grease pit. This was a concrete cube about three feet on a side that was set in the ground behind the mess hall. Drain water went through a series of traps there to filter the grease out of the drain water. Cleaning out the grease pit was a nastier job than I could ever have imagined. We were told we wouldn‘t be allowed off the base until after we had finished six of the eight weeks of Basic Training. We weren‘t even to leave the barracks area. I wrote more letters in those eight weeks than in the rest of my life. We found the slave wages we were paid were another non-hardship—Uncle Sam took care of everything.

During our second week of KP, a bunch of us were peeling potatoes and telling stories about our civilian lives. I chimed in with the heartbreaking story of giving up my new GTO for the privilege of serving in the Army. One of my new friends said,

You poor sap. Haven’t you heard of the Soldiers and Sailors Relief Act?

"Ohhhhhh, I don’t think I want to hear this."

The Soldiers and Sailors Relief Act says that if you are drafted or enlist under pressure of the draft, all your bills can be reduced to whatever level you can afford. As soon as I knew my number was going to come up, I went out and bought a new Corvette. It’s in a garage in Columbia, now. And get this—I pay $5.00 a month for it. Isn’t that great?

Well, I didn’t think it was so great! That night I dreamed about my beautiful, fire-engine red GTO convertible. My neighbor in the upper bunk told me in the morning that he thought I had been having a nightmare. Yeah. That just about summed up the way I felt.

BASIC TRAINING

When Basic Training finally started, we were all excited, and ready for the change. After all, we had endured two solid weeks of mess hall duty, and nothing could be worse than continuous KP….Could it?

Well, of course it could!

Monday morning at 5:30 a.m. (0530 hours, in military jargon) Sergeant Williams and three of his cronies exploded into the barracks. The lights went on, and they started banging on lockers and shouting encouraging things such as:

Drop your cocks and grab your socks! Turn out of those racks! Your Uncle Sam isn’t paying you to lie around all day! I want all you men dressed out and in formation in the Company Street in ten minutes.

Ten minutes?! Well, you never saw such a rush for the bathroom! We managed to form what we thought was a pretty good formation by the appointed time. In the predawn dark we were told exactly who we were. The drill sergeants seemed to only talk at only one level—loud.

Stand at attention! Straighten up there, you! You are the sorriest-looking bunch of maggots I’ve ever seen! But we’re going to change that! Aren’t we?

I asked you a question! Aren’t we going to change that?

Yeah! we replied.

"What the hell was that? When you address me I only want to hear, Yes, Drill Sergeant, or No Drill Sergeant! Is that clear?"

Yes, Drill Sergeant.

I can’t heeear you!

Yes, Drill Sergeant.

What the hell kind of maggots are you? I STILL can’t hear you!

YES, DRILL SERGEANT!

That’s better! Now, we are going to run IN FORMATION down to the exercise ground at that end of the company street where we will have our first Physical Training! PLATOON, ATTENTION! RIGHT FACE! ON THE DOUBLE! FORWARD…MARCH! Pick it up! I want no stragglers!

The exercise ground turned out to be a stretch of asphalt about 150 feet by 300 feet. We would get to know it well. For the next 30 or 40 minutes, we did calisthenics. Most of us weren’t up to the pace he demanded. It was brutal! When, at last, he told us to get back into formation, we thought it was over. But, of course, it wasn’t. After telling us what a worthless bunch of maggots we were several more times, he started us running around the exercise ground. We ran for 15 or 20 minutes. By now, nearly everyone thought that death was imminent. Sergeant Williams ran with us, however, and shouted encouragement to us all—particularly the ones at the back of the pack.

Get the lead out of your ass, Private! Lift those legs! Pump your arms! What’s the matter with you? Think you can’t go any farther? Move your ass, troop, I’m not done with you yet!

By the time we got back to the barracks, it was 6:45 a.m. Everyone was drenched with sweat. We were given 15 minutes to get cleaned up, and then we were marched to the mess hall. We were famished. One thing you could say for Basic Training, though; if the food in the mess hall wasn‘t the greatest, there was plenty of it, and you could eat as much as you wanted.

Initially, we were taught all the important minutiae that make a good soldier:

How to march in formation, How to turn properly,

How to fold our Army issue uniforms and lay them out in our lockers and foot lockers, How to spit shine our shoes and boots, How to polish brass,

How to wax the barracks floor so we could see ourselves in it,

The proper way to clean toilets and urinals,

What the various rank insignia meant,

Who to salute, and how,

How to address officers.

How to keep our gig lines straight.

Now this last was a typical bit of Army arcanery. You were expected to keep the opening of your fatigue shirt, the opening of the zipper flap on your pants, and the right side of your shiny brass belt buckle in a straight line. If one of the drill sergeants detected the tiniest deviation, you were immediately gigged (punished) for your transgression. The usual punishment was 20 pushups, but sometimes the drill sergeants had other prescriptions to aid our memories. You can imagine how difficult it was to remember your gig line when you had just finished crawling under barbed-wire fences, or slithering over, under, or around numerous other obstacles. We did a lot of pushups.

Those of us who smoked learned how to field strip their butts. That sounds pretty obscene, but refers to the practice of taking your cigarette butt apart, scattering the remaining tobacco, and putting the remaining paper (and the filter, if your cigarette was so equipped) in your pocket for proper disposal later. If a drill sergeant found a cigarette butt, the whole company was made to sweep the area. The drill sergeants would line us up in the duck walk position (squatting with your butt low) and walk us from one end of the company area to the other, picking up all trash as we went. After the first time we did that, even those of us who didn’t smoke were constantly on the look out for cigarette butts, and we disposed of them when we found them.

We marched everywhere. Some of the guys had to learn their left feet from their right. But eventually everyone could stay in step. All the training areas seemed to have been located as far as possible from the barracks area. We marched and we marched. For the first couple of weeks most of what we learned was marching.

Occasionally there were movies. These movies hadn’t been made in Hollywood, and they didn’t tell the sort of stories we were accustomed to seeing on the silver screen. Instead, we learned about the horrors of venereal diseases, the effects of various types of chemical weapons, elementary first aid, and things not to do with a rifle.

Ah, the rifle….In 1966 the M16 was reserved for the lucky folks serving in Vietnam. In basic training we learned on its older brother, the M14. Essentially the same, the M14 had a heavier, wood stock, as opposed to the high-tech plastic stock of the M16, and the ones we were issued wouldn’t fire in the fully automatic mode. We learned how to take it apart, clean it, put it together, and march with it, and what to call it. You never called your rifle anything but a rifle. If you made the terrible mistake of calling it a gun, you were required to hold it overhead with one hand, with your elbow straight. Then, with the other hand you pointed first at the rifle and then at your crotch, and at the top of your lungs you shouted,

"This is my rifle! This is my gun! This is for killing!

This is for fun!"

The drill sergeants delighted in this game, and would keep the unfortunate example performing this drill for long periods of time.

Yes, we learned a lot about our rifles, but we didn’t learn how to shoot them for a long while. Most of the time, the rifles were left in the barracks when we went on our little marches. None of us minded leaving them behind: it meant that much less weight to carry. Full packs weighed about 40 or 50 pounds. After a few miles, they felt more like 400 pounds, so the extra burden of a rifle was a good thing not to have.

Finally, we were going to put the training to practice and learn to shoot. We marched much farther than we had before and found ourselves at the firing range. Picture acres of empty South Carolina scrub grass. About 50 firing positions had been set up. These consisted of a fox hole, and a few sand bags. Off in the distance were the targets. We got an hour-long lecture concerning exactly what we would be doing, and how to do it. Then we were separated into groups of 50. The first group was issued ammunition, loaded up, and walked to the firing positions. When everyone was in place, the sergeant in charge shouted,

All right, men, get into the firing pits!

Down the firing line, everyone jumped into his fox hole. One fellow seemed to have a trampoline in the bottom of his: he came up like he had springs on his soles. The sergeant hollered,

What the hell do you think you are doing, maggot? You in position 16…get into that fox hole!

I can’t get in there, Sergeant…there’s a snake in that hole!

Is that so…?

The sergeant walked down and stood next to the shaking soldier. He looked down in the fox hole, then said:

Well, I’ll be damned. Give me that rifle, troop.

With that, the sergeant took aim and fired into the pit. Then he had the soldier jump into the pit and remove the snake. What he brought out was a six-foot rattlesnake! From that moment, when we were told to get into fox holes, everyone knocked on the side, or threw something in first. The sight of that soldier bouncing out of the fox hole kept us all amused—and careful. After that, the actual shooting was anticlimactic.

HAND-TO-HAND

One day we were marched to a new location, and seated on bleachers for the typical indoctrination lecture. We were told that we would be taught how to protect ourselves using only our hands. After witnessing the firepower that an M14 provided, we were well aware that if all we had were hands and our enemy was armed, we would be history. The lecture droned on and on—it seemed that we were going to learn how to talk our enemies to death. Then the lecturer asked if anyone would like to participate in a demonstration. Now the lecturer was my platoon sergeant, Sergeant Williams. He was only about five feet six inches tall, and probably weighed about 150 pounds, so he didn’t appear to be very menacing. But the members of his platoon remembered that during one of his lectures, he had let slip that he was the only person in the Army who held an Expert Badge in hand-to-hand combat. That made 60 people I knew who would not want to volunteer for this little demonstration.

One fellow, however, shot up his hand immediately. He was called down to the open space in front of the bleachers. Then from behind the bleachers, out stepped Sergeant Lewis. Now, Sergeant Lewis looked the part of a master of combat. He was about six feet four inches tall and weighed about 240 pounds—and there didn’t appear to be any fat on him. He had a mean-looking scowl to complete the intimidating portrait.

We were told that the poor Private who had volunteered would first show how he would defend himself from Sergeant Lewis’s attack with a (wooden) bayonet. Then Sergeant Lewis would demonstrate one of the correct ways. Our attention was riveted to the spectacle that was about to take place. I wondered how the unfortunate Private would get through the rest of Basic Training in a body cast. Then, the exhibition began. Light on his feet as a cat, Sergeant Lewis approached the Private and lunged at him with the wooden bayonet. The Private responded by breaking Sergeant Lewis’s arm. As the poor Sergeant lay there moaning in pain, we looked at one another in awe. It turned out, of course, that the Private had a black belt in karate. He maintained that he hadn’t meant to hurt Sergeant Lewis, but that the Sergeant had fallen poorly when he was flipped.

The Sergeant and the Private were led off in different directions—one to the hospital, and the other to parts unknown. I never saw him again. Later I wondered if he had been a plant, and the whole exhibition a sham. But if that were the case, the Sergeant had taken some acting classes somewhere, because he looked like he was in a great deal of pain. What’s more, his platoon was assigned to another Sergeant     

Hand-to-hand combat instruction was fairly enjoyable. We didn’t do any real fighting (at least, the exercises were not intended to be serious), but it was nice to be out in the open and doing something other than mindlessly running around in circles or doing calisthenics. The actual exercises were held in what were called pits. There were about 10 of these, and they consisted of nothing more than 25-foot diameter circles ringed by sandbags and filled with sand. Generally the Drill Sergeants stood in the middle of the pits and directed operations.

On one occasion, Sergeant Williams was in our pit. Way over by the bleachers, one of the other sergeants was using a megaphone to tell us about the next exercise. I was not being as attentive as I should have been, since I was kidding around with the guy standing next to me. All of a sudden, Sergeant Williams said,

Leeger! How much would you bet that I could take one step from where I‘m standing and plant both of my heels between your eyes?

„Uh….I wouldn‘t want to bet on that, Drill Sergeant,"

I stammered back. Then, all my platoon mates chimed in with,

C’mon, Sergeant Williams, show us!

Yeah! I’d bet five dollars you can’t do it.

Go on. Show us, Sergeant Williams!

And other encouraging words. What a bunch of friends! Fortunately, Sergeant Williams declined to remake my face, and instead insisted that I pay closer attention to what the other Sergeant was saying. You can bet that I was all ears!

SKINNY

One of the black guys in our platoon was named Skinny. Now, I’m sure he had a complete name, but all any of us ever knew him as was Skinny. He was from Philadelphia, and proud of it! He was very young, immature (none of us, in fact, were epitomes of maturity), not very bright, and not well educated. Whenever someone said something that he approved of (or disapproved of, for that matter), he would say,

GOD ALMIGHTY DAWG!

He was very lighthearted—he treated the whole Basic Training experience as a wonderful opportunity organized just so that he could have fun. He was fun to be around, except for one thing: he didn’t smell very good. And the odor got progressively worse as the weeks went by. No one could remember seeing Skinny take a shower. Now, remember that Basic Training had started in September when it was still plenty hot in South Carolina, and we had been working up a good sweat every day for four or five weeks. As you can imagine, he would have been a natural for a before advertisement for Mennen Speed Stick.

Several of us talked to him, and tried to get him to understand that there was nothing personal involved, but he just wasn’t pleasant to be down wind of. All of our tact was for naught: the smell kept getting stronger and stronger. We went to Sergeant Williams, and explained the problem. His advice was succinct:

He’s your platoon mate. You take care of it.

That night after lights out some of the guys held a meeting. It was decided that drastic action was required. Not wanting to put up with the smell for another day, the guys (there must have been 10 or 12 of them) snuck over to Skinny’s bunk. They yanked him out of bed, and pulled his blanket over his head and upper body. Then they dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the shower where the water had been left running. They held him under the shower for a long time. His blanket was soaked and so, more importantly, was Skinny. The message finally got through—from that day on, Skinny showered every day. From then on, not only was he fun to be around, but he wasn’t even bad to be down wind from.

BREAKUP

The previous July, while in Summer Theater, I had gotten engaged to a lovely girl named Janet Boyd. She was one of the dancers/ singers in the chorus. She was aware of the fact that I had been drafted, but our plan was for me to get through Basic Training and then get married. Because I had enlisted for the Army Security Agency, I was pretty confident that I wouldn’t be sent to Vietnam, and that Janet would be allowed to accompany me to duty assignments after Basic. I called her twice a week, and wrote at least once a week. She wrote back from East Carolina University, where she was enrolled.

During the fifth week of Basic Training we were told that we would have a pass that weekend. I was ecstatic! I called around and found that I could afford a train ticket to Raleigh, North Carolina. From there, it was about an hour and a half drive to Greenville and my fiancee. I figured I could hitchhike that distance in a couple of hours.

The weekend pass didn’t start until 8:00 a.m. Saturday, and we had to be back by 8:00 p.m. Sunday. Saturday morning we fell out for reveille at 7:00. Everyone was excited about getting off the base for a day and a half. Someone must have been so excited that his brain went out of gear, because lo and behold, when Sergeant Williams stepped up to give us the morning lecture he found a cigarette butt on the ground in front of him.

Well, well, well….What do we have here? You men think you’re going to get out of here and leave me with a filthy, dirty company area?

No, Drill Sergeant!

You’re goddamn right you’re not. Form up in a line across the street! Assume the position! Now clean this place up!

Everyone was afraid that this was some kind of tactic to deny us all or part of our leave. I was really worried that I would miss the train to Raleigh. We duck-walked as quickly as possible, making certain not to miss anything. Finally Sergeant Williams decided that the area was clean enough for us to be allowed to go. We formed up again, got a short lecture, and were released.

I made the train for Raleigh. By the time we arrived in Raleigh it was dark out—and raining. I took a cab to the highway where I intended to hitch hike, and got out in the rain. I wasn’t there for very long when a big Buick pulled up. The passenger window rolled down.

Kinda wet to be out, ain’t it. Where are you headed?

I’m going to Greenville, sir.

Well, get in. I can give you a ride to I-95. From there you’re on your own.

I was grateful to get into the warm, dry car. I strapped on my seat belt while he got underway, leaned back, and relaxed a little bit. It didn’t last for long. He picked up the whiskey bottle between his legs, took a big swig, and said,

Here, kid. Have a drink.

Uh….No thanks sir.

It appeared as though he had been drinking quite a bit, because our progress down the road was not too smooth or steady. After about five minutes, I decided I would sooner catch a cold than a tree. I asked him to pull over, and got out. My luck had to get better from this point, I decided. I was, however, out in the country with no cover, getting wetter by the minute. I hiked down the road about a mile until I came to an overpass. At least I was dry. Finally, after about half an hour, someone picked me up. He drove me to I-95 and let me off. I only waited there about 15 minutes before someone gave me a ride all the way to Greenville. Well, now I knew my luck had turned.

Unfortunately, my luck was just beginning to self-destruct. When I finally got to Janet’s dorm, my spirits were soaring. Not having any place to stay, we walked over to the theater which, as usual, was unlocked. We went inside and sat down. Then she said those magic words,

I can’t marry you, John.

Well, they certainly weren’t the words I was expecting, but they magically took my soaring spirits and dashed them to the ground. She said she had decided she couldn’t do anything until she finished her degree. Worse than that, she had decided to call off the engagement, because of the time involved. Oh, sure, she said she still loved me—she just didn’t love me enough to commit or to wait.

I was devastated. We talked all night, but I couldn’t change her mind. In the morning, she and a friend of ours gave me a ride to I-95. We kissed goodbye.

I stood there on the side of the road crying like a baby. Eventually, I got myself somewhat under control, and put out my thumb. Soon enough, a fellow stopped and picked me up. He was driving to Miami, and needed someone to keep him awake. He had left the day before from Montreal, and was driving nonstop. I managed to keep him awake all the way to where I needed to get off in South Carolina. It was a matter of minutes before someone stopped and gave me a ride all the way to Fort Jackson.

I made it back before the deadline, went into the barracks, and sat down, desolate. After a while, John McKenzie came over,

What’s the matter, man? You haven’t moved a muscle since you sat down. What happened?

I told