By Dave Berry dvberry@tylerpaper.com

“After a hard day of basic training, you could eat a rattlesnake.”

Elvis Presley

 

liked to march. Once I got a few miles on my boots, it came easy for me. I was long-legged, as were the other squad leaders, and could really stride out when the sergeant called cadence. The company liked to sing, and we stepped off smartly to the sergeant’s off-color songs. But if we ever screwed up, he would double-time us until the shorter guys started to cave in.

The platoon marched four abreast. Squad leaders filled the first rank, with first squad on the left, fourth on the right. Members of each squad fell into files behind their squad leaders. That’s what they mean by “rank and file,” Tallest men were in front, shortest in the rear. When one of the little guys started dropping back, the drill sergeant would scream at the squad leader and tell him to get his man back in the ranks.

So, we would peel off to the side, drop back to our slow man, grab him by the belt and hustle him back up into line. Then you hustled back to the front of your squad and fell back into step.

“Yo lep, yo lep, yo lep, rat, lep,” the sergeant would count.

Pretty quick, we would be strutting along and he would bellow out a marching song:

“Ain’t no use in going home,

Jody’s got your girl and gone.

Sound off, one two

Sound off, three four

Bring it on down

One two three four one two…

THREE FOUR!”

We would march for miles, then do calisthenics or some other physical training, then march some more. It was kind of an adventure, and each time out they added more to the mix. We started rifle training and carried our M-16s on marches. Then full packs. Soon we were humping full packs and double timing to the rifle range.

I thought I was in decent shape before I was drafted, but I have never before or since been as strong and healthy as I was during those weeks of basic training. It was hard work, fun in a twisted sort of way. And I guess I thrived on it. I wouldn’t have been much of a soldier if I hadn’t fussed about it, but I walked tall, tried hard and worked to do it right.

One march was supposed to be 10 miles out, camp overnight and then march back 10 miles the other way. Well, it was so cold they were afraid we would freeze up in our tents. So about the time we had joined our shelter halves, erected our tents, stuffed limbs and leaves around all the cracks to keep out the cold and then crawled into our sleeping bags, the sergeants came around to roust us out for the march back.

So, we had marched all day, froze our butts off, then got no sleep before being headed back to the barracks. Everyone was exhausted, but they kept up the training. We survived a couple of fake ambushes, and marched all night.

We had a lot of stragglers on that march. The little guys with 60-pound loads just couldn’t keep up. A couple of guys in my squad were dragging along behind, along with several from other squads. All the squad leaders found themselves constantly in the rear pushing them along. I think I came in carrying two packs and two M-16s.

Here’s a stupid thing I’m going to have to ask you not to repeat. I was totally numb and pretty much a zombie when I came dragging in with 3rd Squad. All we wanted to do was get into our bunks, but first we had to turn in our M16s at the armory.

The routine is simple. First, you take out the clip, then you pull the bolt to eject any round in the barrel. Once you see that there is no bullet in the chamber, you can pull the trigger. However, if you are tired and forget to take the clip out first, then even though you eject one shell, another enters the barrel when you pull the trigger. BOOM, and everyone hits the floor.

We were using blanks, but the sound is the same, and even a blank can kill if fired at close range.

So when I popped off a round into the ceiling of the armory, it was no small thing. In fact, it was probably the dumbest stunt I ever pulled in my whole life.

The armory sergeant got in my face and screamed at me like I was the lowest form of filth, but I was too tired to care or hear. Finally, he grabbed my rifle and told me to “get out of my armory.”

I did, as quickly as I could. As I walked away, another guy in another company did the same thing. This time, they put the whole bunch in front-leaning rest (push-up) position while they screamed and cursed.

I was already out the door and dismissed to go back to the barracks. They hadn’t taken my name, and I never saw the armory sergeant again, so I escaped scot-free.

OK, you promised not to repeat any of that.

###

Dave Berry is editor of the Tyler Morning Telegraph. His Focal Point column appears on the front of the My Generation section every Wednesday.