Military Madness: Ft. Dix # 8: Too Much to Pay

Too Much to Pay

 The biggest difference between Fort Leonard Wood and Fort Dix was that at Fort Dix we had a goal, and we knew that our time was going to be spent being trained in our areas of specialty.  I had done my boot camp at Fort Leonard Wood, back in 1972, and had now moved on to New Jersey for advanced individual training (AIT). Though we did do physical training (P.T.) every day, and we did run to and from our classes each day, the vast majority of our time at Ft. Dix was spent working on our classroom courses.  

I was given fourteen books to wade my way through, including one on typing.  It was a self-motivated program; the sooner we completed it, the sooner we could get out of the classroom and on the job, training.  We had to learn how to type, and there were no computer programs.  We knew that in order to pass our courses, we had to be able to type proficiently.  No one knew what the required number of words per minute was, but we knew that none of us had reached the magic quota. 

Officially, my military occupational specialty (MOS) was personnel specialist.  I hadn’t been on post for more than a week, when word came down from On High, that the forty guys in chaplain’s assistant school, no longer were.  That’s just the way it happened, except that there were four guys who had their job guaranteed in writing.  Those four remained in the program because they had that piece of paper; of course it also meant that they were three-year guys.  Too much to pay.

I had the opportunity to extend my military time of service in three different manners during the first four months of the service.  The first was the conventional manner: sign up for a third year to guarantee either MOS or choice of eventual theater of assignment, within reason.  A guy might want California, but not be able to get his hometown, having to settle for Ft. Ord instead.

 The second method was to sign up to be an officer, and the third was to sign up for warrant officer school.  While I was in Ft. Leonard Ward, I was approached to be a candidate for Officers’ School.  As soon as I found out it was a three-year commitment, I said emphatically, “No thank you.”  I started to do the same at Fort Dix, when this nice warrant officer came through the office one day, just after the order had come down that we were no longer chaplain’s assistants.  Once again, my test scores from the series of basic skills tests we took upon entry into the service, had come into play. 

Chief Warrant Officer Meane wasn’t.  Mean, that is.  He was just the opposite, which demonstrated a rare breach in the army’s ability to get it wrong.  CWO Meane first appeared on the scene, not while we were in class, but when we were on our ten-minute morning break.  We were standing around out front on a morning that had seen the rain move on, leaving clear skies, and steam rising up all around us from the saturated spring ground.  We were drinking coffee, and some were puffing on their ciggies.

CWO Mean  was in uniform, but he was not interested in formality.  He quickly dismissed the required salute with a lazy movement of one hand.

“No need,” he said simply.  “I’m not here to see how high you can jump, so much as I am to see how high you would like to climb.”

I thought to myself, this guy is not the norm.  Just the salute dispensation told me that.  The officers I encountered always seemed to get off on the need to have the enlisted men acknowledge their superiority in rank.  When he started off in such an unorthodox manner, I took advantage.

I asked him, “Hey, Chief Warrant Officer Meane, what’s the difference between a warrant officer and a regular, army-issued officer?”

“That’s easy.  Warrant officers do not have to possess a four year degree; they may be an expert in one field which makes them a desirable commodity, but lack the necessary schooling.  Their primary task as  leaders is to serve as technical experts, providing valuable skills, guidance, and expertise to commanders in their field.  We’re always looking at recruits to see if they may have the tools we are looking for.”  He looked at us expectantly.

Roy asked him, “So are you checking out the prospects?” He grinned at the officer.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Private Turvey.  How perceptive of you.  I am interested in candidates for flight school."  

“And do the prospects look good?” I asked, straightening up, and squaring my shoulders in an exaggerated way.  I didn’t want an additional year, and I sure didn’t want to consider a job which involved flying, at least not in aircraft, but he didn't need to know that at this minute.

“It’s funny you should ask, Private O’Neill, because I was thinking they do.”

I looked at him and said, somewhat inanely, “They do?”

  “Actually, I am here to speak to your commander about a meeting we are having in which we wish to present the opportunity to join training, with the purpose of becoming warrant officers.  Is that something that appeals to you?” 

“Are you talking to me?” Another brilliant question.

“I am.  You and Roy here, and one other recruit in your class.  What do you say?”

When I realized that he was getting serious, I went into the same routine that I had employed at Ft. Leonard Wood.  “Well, I have only one question.  Does it involve signing up for more than one year?  Because if...”

Before I could go into my litany about the two years versus the three years, Roy interrupted me, firmly.

“Chief Warrant Officer Meane, we would be highly interested in attending the meeting.  I think it would be in our best interests to see what the program has to offer.  Don’t you agree, Private O’Neill?”

The meaningful look in his eyes convinced me that he had a good point.  “Yes, silly me.  I think an open mind is a sponge, and my mind is pretty dry right now.”  Roy managed not to roll his eyes at that attempt at recovery, but all he said was, “Is the meeting after chow tonight, Sir?”

“Hell, no,” said CW Meane.  “Right after lunch.  At thirteen hundred hours, up in Battalion Headquarters.  I will speak to the officer in charge of your classes.  Simply go from chow up to Battalion, and ask for me.  Good show, men.”

 As he walked away, Roy looked at him, looked at me and gave me two thumbs up.  "Mission accomplished," he said.  "We have an appointment after lunch, and it doesn't have anything to do with sitting in a boring classroom."

Military Madness: Ft. Dix # 7: An Infusion of Color

An Infusion of Color

In letters home the first week, I kept commenting that the food was good, a vast improvement over Fort Leonard Wood.  The first meal I had, once I got into the permanent barracks, consisted of “...the biggest and best-tasting meal I had had in two and a half months.  We had our choice of steak, ham & cheese on toast (hot!) and pork.  I took the sandwich and I also had salad, potatoes, corn, bread, some celery, pears, jello, cake and fruit juice.”

Later we found out that this particular mess hall served as on-the-job-training for a company of recruits, being trained as cooks.  There were two hundred recruits in this company, and at all times, there was a large contingent of them working in our mess hall.  These trainees would have been just as anxious to put their best effort into their classes, so as to be able to move on, as the guys in my company.  The result as that there was a wide variety of chow available, so the the trainees could acquire experience with all different available meals, and we were the unwitting beneficiaries of all of that preparation, being in the right place, at the right time.  

What was going on here?  First, I got assigned a lucky MOS; then I got assigned a three-man room; then the three-man room ended up being on the first floor, instead of the third; finally, the chow is not only palatable, it was downright tasty.  Equally important was the fact that we were given enough.  a great deal of my unhappiness in basic, was simply because there was inadequate amounts of chow provided for the demands of the physical program we were in.  It’s hard to double-time out to the firing range when you are still hungry from breakfast.

All of this discussion about the chow hall, prompts me to relate the details of one glorious Sunday morning breakfast, when the three of us bounced into the chow hall the minute it opened, because we were going hiking out in the boondocks of the base, to check out some of the lakes that were reportedly sprinkled around the base everywhere.  We had just taken our seats, with our trays stuffed with breakfast goodness, when we heard shouting and the sounds of running feet.

Before we could even assess what was happening, these two hippies came racing across the chow hall toward us and all of those in the chow line, shouting and laughing, and jumping high in the air.  They were clutching a handful of pamphlets each, which they were trying to distribute to all of us war mongers.  I have to hand it to those hippies-they were certainly an infusion of color into our olive drab green world.

Both had flowing locks of hair, EVERYwhere.  One was a carrot-top, with a million freckles, and a red beard that looked so much like my own red beard that I had arrived at FLW wearing, that it made me immediately jealous.  He was dressed in a red blazer with flowing yellow pants, cottony and billowing out around him.  He was barefoot.  He had multiple necklaces on, including one of sea shells, and one of flowers.

The second was a blond, with a straggly, wispy beard, and hair down to his waist.  He was dressed in Levis, with a blue work shirt on, that had been embroidered with a huge sun on the back, its rays extending out all across his shoulders.  He was also barefoot, a fact that was emphasized when he raced down the empty counter that divided the enlisted men’s section, from that of the officers.  He was quite quick.  

I say the hippies were trying to distribute the pamphlets, because the second they burst upon the scene, every non-commissioned officer in the place started chasing them with the intent, I am certain, of whipping a little old-fashioned hurt upon them.  We were of the opinion that the hippies thought it was all a big game of dodge-the-mad-bulls, but the non-coms saw it as an affront, and they were willing to pursue the matter. 

They did manage to thrust several of the pamphlets onto our table as they raced past, enjoying our pleasure to the max.  We were cheering them on as the carrot top winked at me as he raced by, and though I was desperate to snag one of those brochures, the non-coms pursuing them, were snatching them up from the tables, chairs and floor, wherever they were tossed.  I saw enough to learn that they were promoting a peace demonstration in front of the base, to be held the following weekend.  The pamphlet urged all of those “who opposed the brutality being heaped upon our brothers and sisters in South-East Asia, to join our protest and force the war-mongering, talking heads in Washington DC to curb their bloodthirsty palates, and bring the curs of war home, permanently.”  I liked that poetic touch of bringing the curs (dogs) of war home or, if you please, the “curse of war” home.

It was all so much fun.  Of course it was over too soon, and the last we saw those characters were dancing outside the chow hall, jumping over planter boxes, benches and tables.  In evaluating their performance, we gave them two thumbs up.  I ventured to guess that this was not the first, nor the twenty-first time they had been on this site, judging from the alacrity and determination demonstrated by the pursuers.  Besides, the timing was right, early, and their evasive tactics looked as though they had run this course before.  Buddha bless them and their peace-loving efforts.  We sure did.

United Auto Stores # 12: Skip the Ice

Skip the Ice

My little sister Laura came to work for me at United Auto Stores, in the late seventies/early eighties, while she was attending San Jose State University.  She must have been 22 or 23 at the time, and she needed a job.  I had been working at United since 1974, so I was a fixture behind the counter.

I say Laura came to work for me, because I ran the dealer trade, and Laura drove the delivery truck.  In the beginning she got her baptism by fire, being tossed into the automotive grinder, from which no one emerges with clean fingernails, especially not the delivery driver.  She had to learn to be able to criss-cross San Jose and neighboring cities, by dint of instinct, rather than with something akin to a map.  There really was no time for maps.

Remembering that there was no handy cell phone to tell Laura that Lieu, at Lieu’s Shell, had called thirty seconds after she left to take the Datsun L1600 cylinder head, with the gasket set, out to the shop.  He said that he also needed a timing belt and both radiator hoses, so it looks as though Laura will be going by Lieu’s again today.

The things I used to ask of her amaze me, but what is even more astonishing, is that she was able to do them.  It was hard enough to work in an industry that was dominated by men, it was worse to frequently be the only female that a lot of the mechanics would see in a given day, and I am sure that Laura had to put up with a lot of guff.  If she came back and reported every time that some jerk whistled at her, or worse, she would have had to spend a lot of time keeping us caught up.

As it was, she had to have a fairly thin level of tolerance, and if someone gave her a hard time, she would give it right back.  On top of that, there were any number of able-bodied United Auto workers, who would have loved being amongst those asked for help, in dealing with rude or boorish behavior.  I know for a fact that Richard, our machinist, was extremely protective of Laura.  Richard worked in the machine shop, and I have gone on record as saying that, pound for pound, I thought he was the strongest person I have ever met.

Richard depended on having the delivery truck available to facilitate the machine shop’s efficiency.  Often he asked me to locate and acquire valves or valve guides, or especially the valve stem seals, so necessary to reassemble a cylinder head, though he never asked me to look up the part number.  He did that himself, working those catalogs with the best of them, so all he would give me was the part number.  That way, if there was a complication, then he would not blame anyone but himself.

So like the Godfather, Richard liked to be appraised of bad news immediately.  If something was going on that rocked Laura’s world, then it was something that Richard was definitely going to take a personal interest in.  Anyone and everyone would have jumped to her defense at a hint of provocation, but Richard would have been alongside me, at the front of the line.  

Trying to keep up with the ebb and flow of our shop was impossible; all Laura could do is play pinball wizardette, as I would send her to Central Automotive Warehouse, after making sure that Kim had stock-checked the part, and then have her take it out to Evergreen Automotive.   There they would be waiting for her, so that they could give her a cylinder head that had to be surfaced, back at our shop.  However, since they needed the gasket set, it probably made sense for her to swing by Bayshore, still one more time to pick it up.  We won’t mention to her that the master cylinder for the International, that she snagged this morning, was the wrong one, so she’ll have to pick up another one at the dealer when she gets back from her last run.  

And by the way, Laura, you nice, considerate, kind, supportive, wonderful human being, would you mind ever so much stopping by at Togo’s for twelve-teen sandwiches that need to be dragged through the garden, and an equal number of Pepsis-with ice?  Your best friends here at United Auto will never forget it.  You know they will never forget it, because tomorrow they are talking about In-N-Out Burgers, and in 1980, the closest In-N-Out to San Jose, was in Los Angeles.

What do you think, Laura, can you be back here by closing time?  Great!   Better skip the ice in the Pepsis.

United Auto Stores # 11: We Should Be So Lucky

We Should Be So Lucky

Kevin drove a baby-blue VW bug, when he joined the crew at United Auto Stores, Story Road, in the late seventies.  I only mention the bug because Kevin was tall, almost as tall as Big John.  Like so many big guys I have known, Pescalone among them, Kevin never seemed to get angry.

He could sure get excited when discussing the Giants, though, or talking about his friend, some guy name Dave Righetti, with whom he went to high school.  It seems this Dave guy was a professional ball player, playing for the Yanks, and I thought that was cool. I really thought so, on July 4, 1983, the day Righetti threw a no-hitter against the Red Sox at Yankee stadium.  Talk about picking your moment.  Then, when Righetti joined the Giants, first in 1993 as a pitcher, then as pitching coach, I felt as though he were my cousin.

Kevin sure got excited about Jimmy Buffet too.  We went together, a bunch of us including Ann, to see The Coral Reefer Band at the San Jose Performing Arts Center.  Kevin wore this white suit, and got Ann to draw a “pencil-thin mustache” across his upper lip.  Bucking the trend of all of those hoping for a visit to Margaritaville, we filled a jug with lemonade and gin, and walked in as though we owned the place.  When they asked Kevin what was in the jug, he answered, “Lemonade, Sir.  Would you like me to remove the cover?”  Kevin could manage to look as sincere as a fox in a hen house, but his response and his offer tipped scale in our direction, and into the concert hall we went.  When the train stopped at Margaritaville, we remained on the platform, drinking our gin and lemonade.

Working at United, and seeing all of us doing the Spanish thing with the customers, fired up Kevin’s linguistic juices, and he joined me in my daily regimen of a 7:30 AM Spanish class at San Jose State University.  It was only fifty minutes, but I always felt good after class, as we headed to the Student Union for a snack.  Here it was 8:25 in the morning and I already had five units of Spanish under my belt for the day.

Also, because I arrived so early, I was able to park on the streets in the neighborhood, thus saving the cost of parking.  Kevin, on the other hand, could get to class on time, but only because he did park in the garage, thus eliminating the need to first find, and then walk from, a parking spot on the street.  Therefore, it was only logical that we would occasionally adjourn to the VW Bug in the parking garage to fortify our spirits during a long day at the grind.

There were three of us, one semester, who actually used to meet at Kevin’s car on Friday mornings, twenty minutes before Spanish class, to smoke a joint of Mendo green, which I was able to provide, thanks to some goodness sent down form the land.  On Fridays the class used to meet directly in “la panaderia,” the bakery, where the instructor used to conduct class in the form of conversation. 

We would order our coffee and sweet rolls, and then we would chat in Spanish, as best we could, in a very comfortable manner.  One morning, when the three of us arrived, just after the others had all been seated, we ended up circling around the big round table, each of us seeking a vacant chair, and not being too worried about sitting next to one another.   After we were seated, while introductory acknowledgements were being conducted, each of the three of us trying to keep our smiles from taking over our faces-and failing-the instructor stopped in mid-sentence and sniffed the air.

“Somebody has been smoking marijuana?” and he sniffed again, mildly amused at the idea.  Apparently, in circling the table and getting arranged, the three of us returning from the smoking lounge, brought enough of the fragrance back with us to mingle with the other fragrances in the bakery, to produce enough scent to pique our instructor’s notice.

Since it seemed as though he kept looking in my direction, all I did was give him a huge smile, and say, “Senor, debemos que estar tan afortunados.”  [We should be so lucky.] 

That was all it took; he laughed and said in Spanish, “Yo tambien.”  [Me too]

Kevin was an apt pupil and picked up the lingo quickly.  It helped that he had taken Spanish in high school; it also helped when he met a young lady visiting from Mexico, quien no puede hablar una palabra de ingles [who could not speak a word of English], and ended up marrying her.  That will give a guy a leg up on language acquisition every time.

Military Madness: Ft. Dix # 6: There's a Party Going on Here

There's a Party Going on Here

 Upon being assigned a room on the first floor of our barracks, at Fort Dix, New Jersey, as I prepared to make my way through Advanced Individual Training, I had some decisions to make.  The rest of the platoon was on the third floor, and they were in the midst of a G.I. Party, which meant they were scrubbing floors, and cleaning the latrine.  My roommate was suggesting that we find alternative methods to the evening's activities than cleaning toilets.

 The first night after we came back from chow, we were standing in our room, hashing it out.

“We got to figure out what’s happening here,” said Roy, tying the laces of his basketball shoes.  “I know what I would like to see happen,” indicating his feet.  He had been practicing his Kareem Abdul Jabbar sky hook-shot all day. 

“What about the G.I. Party going on upstairs?” asked Tom.

“What G.I. Party?” asked Roy innocently.  "I don’t see any party. except one for Charlie Company, and we aren’t part of Charlie Company.”  Charlie Company occupied most of the first floor, but since we were not a part of their company, we were not required to be part of their action.

“But that drill sergeant was looking right at you when he was saying he better not catch anyone sneaking out,” I pointed out.

“Of course he was looking at me, and you and you and at everyone who was in there.  That way everyone thinks he’s talking to him.  But it’s impossible.  We are just another forty guys invading his space for eight weeks, before we move on.  They all look the same.  Don’t be so nervous.”

“How do you know we can get a basketball court?” asked Tom.

“I don’t, but if not, then we’ll start with handball.  Actually, it’s paddle ball, but you use the same skills.  If they’re not available, then we’ll lift weights, or go into the sauna.  Get it?  It’s a gymnasium, and there is plenty to do.  All we have to do is be back before nine-fifteen, so that we have fifteen minutes to get ready for lights out.”

“I don’t know, Roy.  It seems as though it’s too easy.  “What if someone rats us out?” I asked.  “I made it through FLW  without any hassles, and I can’t let anything interfere with my plans.” 

Roy just looked at me.  “Are you trying to say that you would go to the drill sergeant, tug on his shirt sleeve, and say, ‘Oh Mister Smokey the Bear, I know three certain individuals who weaseled out on the G. I. Party and I want you to punish them...’  OK.  Look.  I’m not trying to talk you into doing anything.  All I’m saying is that we went up and scrubbed and buffed floors last night, and there were guys spread out all over that third floor.  They can’t possibly keep track of us all.”

Tom spoke up.  “So you think that if we just go out the front door like we own the place, then no one will notice?”

“No one will notice, and no one will care,” responded Roy.

“What if they ask at the gym, why we’re not here?  Scrubbing floors?”  I was not ready to let it go.

Roy was quick, saying, “The guy working behind the counter is some  guy just like us, who is putting in his shift, and who doesn’t get paid a nickel to care about who comes in to play basketball.  If we’re not supposed to be there, it’s no skin off of his nose.  He’s not going to get into trouble, we are.”  Roy was getting warmed up. 

“We are?”  I laughed and added, “I’m in.  I can’t do one more G.I. party, where I have to clean around the toilets and sinks with a toothbrush.”

“Yeah,” said Tom.  “The worst that can happen is that we’ll end up beating everyone in the gym at basketball, get our pictures in the paper, get spotted by Captain Miller, and get thrown in the brig.”

“That’s the navy, and cut it out.  If we’re going, then let’s go.  We’ll follow you,” I said.

That was fine except it left me bringing up the rear, so it was I who turned around when the voice behind me said, “Hey, you soldier, where are you going?  We have a party going on here.”  Charlie Company’s senior drill instructor gestured around at the recruits on the bottom floor, scuttling around with mops, buckets and toothbrushes.

In less time than it took for me to take in a deep quick breath, I realized that he meant that we should be helping out with the others around us.  He assumed we were part of Charlie Company, the occupants of the bottom floor.

“We’re heading to the gym for some free time.  We’re in Delta Company, and the three of us scored highest on our typing tests today, so we’re out of here.”

“Well, good for you.  Carry on.”

Barely waiting for acknowledgement, I turned around and headed out the door.  And that was the last time we had that discussion.  Roy was right; the drill sergeants up on the third floor neither knew, nor cared, that we weren’t there.  The barracks stayed ultra clean anyway, because the guys policed themselves so as to minimize the amount of work they had to do, after they had already been in class, done P.T. and done any work details that Captain Miller threw our way.

Captain Miller had attained a reputation, in the short time that he had been at the helm of our company.  He was pursuing an army career and was said to be quite ambitious.  Unfortunately for us, that meant he wanted to be noticed, and that translated into his volunteering his men for any and every detail that came along.  Though we were ensconced in our classroom, six and a half hours a day, they were more than happy that we not have too much free time.  After all, time is money, and money doesn't come for free.  However, trainees did, and thus we worked so that Captain Miller looked good.  

United Auto Stores # 10: Five hours or Fifteen Miles

Five Hours or Fifteen Miles

Tracy clerked at United Auto Stores, first as a counter-person, and then for the dealer trade, after we acquired our second truck and driver.  This was back in the early eighties at United Auto Stores, Story Road, in San Jose.  A female was a rare commodity in the auto parts world, but Tracy thrived in a setting, where it was important to demonstrate knowledge and competence to instill confidence.

Customers coming into United, for the most part, were not happy campers.  There were so many levels of discontent, that clerks working had to walk a fine line to be able to help, without lancing an already festering boil.  The customer’s car was not working.  He had to figure out what the problem was, who could solve it, how much it was going to cost, and how to schedule the whole process into an already booked calendar.

There were domestic ramifications involving kids, work and school.  The auto parts house was perpetually jammed, and you had to hope that the store not only carried the necessary component, but that it was in stock.  Therefore, many customers had favorite clerks they wanted to deal with, and it was disconcerting to have to do business with either a clerk you did not know, or even worse, a clerk in whom you had no faith.

Many men did not trust women to wait on them because of an inherent lack of confidence.  That is a sexist pig attitude, but in the setting of United Auto, it was the norm.  A female at United faced not only the typical stereotyping that an auto parts house would provide, but also the distrust of many Hispanic males, who were culturally biased against women in any work force, let alone one dominated by men.

Therefore, when I talk about Tracy, I am talking about a very special being.  She not only handled her own behind the counter, she thrived, performing her job with humor, alacrity and style, all three desirable attributes found rarely in a guy, let alone a woman.  Willowy is the word I would use to describe Tracy.  She was easily as tall as I, thin and limber, with long strait dark brown hair.  I could not see Tracy as the type of gal who would change the color of her hair.  She was a very genuine person, whose feelings were clearly visible in her words, mannerisms and face.  She couldn’t fool you about that, and she didn’t try.

In this automotive world, where strength and knowledge were king, Tracy was the queen.  She wasn’t sought out because she was beautiful, though she was very pleasant in appearance, and she wasn’t sought out because she belonged on a calendar, above every garage workbench in America.  No, she was asked for constantly, because the customers believed she cared.  She instilled trust because she gave her customers her undivided attention, took accurate information, and she made it her passion to know her job.

Once Tracy joined me on the dealer counter, she attacked the business of learning all of the available sources of car parts with a vengeance.   The dealer trade was located around the corner from the front counter, on the side bordering King Road, with convenient access to the side door, so that the trucks could get in and out of the busy intersection.  

Doing business within the confines of the shop, with customer and clerk face to face, and the greasy car part lounging insolently on the counter, was challenging enough, without trying to do it over the phone.  It was critically important to have your wits about you, especially since so many of the mechanics were dependent on the auto parts shop to facilitate their livelihood.  That is a lot of pressure.

Therefore, Tracy succeeded all that much more because she could take care of business, not only when things went smoothly, but also when the stream metamorphosed into whitewater rapids.  And that occurred as regularly as the signal changed, out on the corner of Story and King.

Additionally, Tracy served as self-appointed “den-mother” to United Auto, orchestrating this gathering at the pizza parlor, or that adventure on the weekend, like the 2nd Annual Yuba River Run.  It went like this. 

We were all going to drive up to Marysville, where we were invited to participate in a day-long river rafting trip on the Yuba River.  Here are a few of the details contained within the little flyer that Tracy drew up and had xeroxed: “Fifteen miles or five hours of sun & fun & drugs & fun & grins & fun etc.  Bring friends, relatives, dogs and/or mothers-in-law, a tube or raft for you & your ice chest, sun tan lotion or sunscreen, tennis shoes, any food or drugs (place smokables in water proof container!), and alcohol for the day. Will depart from Mont. Wards 9:00AM.  Want to share a ride? Be at my house by 6:30 PM on Friday, May 16, 1980.  Patch kit or extra tube optional."

And that was Tracy, taking care of business on both sides of the counter.  She didn’t leave anything to chance, because then it might not have gotten done.  Chance just wasn’t as dependable as Tracy.

Military Madness: Ft. Dix # 5: No-Man's Land

No-Man's Land

 They rousted me the following morning around eight, and I realized that though I had been cold and hungry, I had still managed to sleep for four and a half hours.  I had come into Ft. Dix, New Jersey, in March of 1972, around three AM that morning, and I now tumbled out of bed and got dressed.

 Along with the others, I then grabbed my gear and headed back downstairs, turned in my “bedding,” and went over to another similarly run-down building, where our records had ben sent, so as to find out where it was that I belonged.  I could just hear Robert in the background, asking if I knew where I was at.  “Not yet, Pa, but I am sure they are going to tell me.  They have been telling me exactly where to go for seventy days now, so I am sure they will continue.”

We ended up joining the rest of our company/platoon in a three-story red brick barracks, exactly the same as the ones in Ft. Leonard Wood.  Once again, our company occupied the third floor, except that I lucked out, coming in after all of the others, because I was assigned one of the only remaining rooms in the barracks, which was a three-man room, on the bottom floor.  So I found myself bunking with a guy from Oregon, named Roy Turvey, and a guy named Tom Oester, two guys who were to be my closest friends, while in New Jersey.

There were four theaters on post, which was a good sign.  Gone with the Wind was showing at one of them the first week I was there, though I did not have time to take it in.  The first week was pretty hectic, and going to a flick was out of the question, but as time went on, the grip was loosened.

A short while later I saw a film called Cisco Pike, which was nothing to write home about, except for the fact that it was filmed in LA, down in Santa Monica, and I was going nuts.  There was no one from California in my platoon, because the majority of them did basic training right here at Ft. Dix.  Most of them went home on the weekends, once we were though the logistical portion of the early going.

The way it worked at Fort Dix was that we all had to do work details the whole first week we were on post, but after that, we only had to keep the barracks clean.  That first week we did the same kind of chores that we did at FLW.  On Monday we had orientation all morning, and we cleaned the barracks all afternoon.  Our drill instructors here in New Jersey required that we remove our boots when we first came in, which was nice because then the floors stayed cleaner, but it was also a pain, because it might have been ten degrees outside, and everyone was trying to get out of the cold in a hurry, and something had to give.

On Tuesday we spent all day at Battalion Headquarters, clearing brush, raking leaves and mowing lawns.  Wednesday we spent all day at supply headquarters, rearranging the entire storage bunkers; Thursday I had KP for seventeen hours.  Friday morning we repaired screens on the orderly room and in the afternoon, we painted.  They got their money’s worth from us, that’s for sure.  At least after that first week, I was done with those work details.  I wrote home that I had a six-hour fireguard duty, the first Saturday night I was on post, which was the first time I had ever been assigned fire duty for more than two hours.  The fireguard was required to stay awake, stay on his feet and to patrol the hall so as to be able to sound the alarm, if needed.  I had to remain awake for six hours, and I wasn’t even supposed to write letters.  I ignored that rule, figuring the worst they would do was take me out and have me shot, and I would have preferred that anyway.

The string of luck, which had landed me a desirable MOS, continued to tie me to good fortune.  Having a room on the bottom floor, while the rest of the platoon was on the third floor, was beyond my wildest dreams.  Those insidious G.I. parties, where we had to scrub the floors each night, whether they needed it or not, were no more.  We were in no-man’s land, because we did not belong to the platoon on the bottom floor, so we did not participate in their G.I. parties, but we were not up there on the third floor, when the drill sergeants gathered the rest together, and gave the order to clean.

The brass did not realize that Roy, Tom and I were not there, and the guys who knew, would never have ratted us out.  What did we do?  We certainly weren’t going to sit around and wait for someone to notice that we did not have “dishpan hands,” so we never returned to our room after chow.  In a letter home to my mom, I mentioned that I had been going to the gym every night, playing paddleball, lifting weights, while alternating between intervals in the sauna, and dives into the Olympic-sized swimming pool.  

 We tried to ignore the fact that we were supposed to be back in the barracks, tooth brush and scouring powder at the ready, and concentrate instead on the rigorous physical training program in which we were participating.  Contrary to what human nature might suggest, our brothers on the third floor were thrilled to see it happening; they thought it was cool that some of us were getting over on the machine.  

 It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.  We couldn't have all of that gym equipment sitting there unused.  Besides, I was tired of brushing my teeth with scouring powder; the enamel was beginning to wear thin.