MEMORIAL DAY

Dateline: 25 May 2015

If there were a symbol of Memorial Day it should be the folded flag given the family upon the death of a veteran. The echoes from taps and rifle salute fade like memories, but the triangle of white stars on a field of blue remains. It’s instantly self explanatory and uniquely American; it identifies and celebrates someone who served when the country called.

They may have died young in battle then escorted home for this last dreamless sleep, or arrived after having lived their full number of years; it matters not as it speaks to a critical moment in time when heroes were needed that they stepped forward.

Bill Mauldin, the creator of the iconic World War Two dogfaces Willie and Joe, wrote about those exposed to actual combat in one form or another as belonging to “The Benevolent and Protective Brotherhood of Them What Has Been Shot At.” Those in the brotherhood form the front row in the chorus of our country’s most admired champions. Behind them stand their supporting forces, sustaining family, and, ultimately, all of us.

They did not join the military to die for their country. Ours is not a nation that demands nor celebrates suicidal jihad, but one that desires all her sons and daughters return home whole to enjoy an untroubled life. No, they saw their soldierly experience as a means of advancing the desire shared by all Americans, from the exalted like Washington and Lincoln to the humble like Willie and Joe, to make ours the more perfect union.

It’s wrong to think that those who repose in Elysian Fields scattered about the globe “gave their life” - even in that last moment before oblivion took them they strove to live another day – rather their divine gift of existence was cruelly snatched away. In that terrible moment their oath to country was forever redeemed by forces hostile to us, their sublime contribution greater than we dare ask of anyone.

Today when we stand on consecrated grounds with the blissful white stones stretching out like a great fan in perfect symmetry, listening to the flag they defended snap in the wind and watch the silent searchers looking for a father or son or sister, it is our moment to acknowledge not just the sacrifice of those at rest here, but of our moral debt to them.

Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg informed us, “… that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

The smartly folded flag and the rituals of honor paid are more than just symbols of a nation’s gratitude; they are a reminder that from the exploits of these courageous men and women great deeds are expected of us.

Harry Puncec is a retired printer and long–ago soldier living in Lakewood, Colorado

WOMEN IN THE MILITARY
DECISION BY DEFENSE DEPARTMENT CHIEF

Dateline: 5 December 2015

I’m sure you’d noticed that every 'solution' creates a new problem to be solved? I’ve seen it over and over again. Today's comes from the Defense Department deciding that every job in the military should be opened to females. Ooookay, now what? The new head scratcher is should girls be registered for the Draft. Now that they CAN serve anywhere, SHOULD they be treated the same as the boys when they turn 18? And if so should we draft them if a real war comes along?

I doubt that many vets are supporters of the whole thing. To us the all male world was sorta natural after a while. You wanted to talk to a woman you went over to the U.S.O. or visit the Red Cross in downtown Verdun to see one, or if truly desperate visit a G.I. bar. Some guys had wives and you could spot them easily, they were the cheerful, civilized ones.

And that’s away from combat. Imagine women with us building a treadway bridge under fire?

Nothing makes me feel older than this issue, women in the military. I recall the good old days (HA!!!) in our beloved 97th Engineers, and barracks life. As I recall it was rather primal, no artwork on the walls nor flowers in a vase in the Orderly Room. Besides having lots of guys walking around in their skivvies much of the time you were treated to our badly degraded language skills. Not only was the level of discourse, well, coarse, but it was heavily salted with the 'f' word and 'mf' was used a lot. For me upon return to CONUS and freedom it took a real effort to relearn how to talk in mixed company.

That’s it for now. I’m going to sit here and imagine how inserting a couple dozen women into the outfit would have affected my time in France. Would I have reenlisted??? Na!

Harry Puncec

VERDUN

Dateline: 15 February 2016

Its beginning was delayed a day by a brief snow storm and that was enough to save France.

Ten months later the Battle of Verdun ended in a draw near the spot where it began.

A hundred years ago, on 21 February 1916, the bleeding began in history’s longest and most horrific battle with a sharp but brief artillery barrage followed by infantry attacking the thinly held French lines just north of the historical town of Verdun. Until December, in an initially heavily wooded, but soon denuded, hilly area approximately size of New York’s Central Park, battle would rage and over a thousand men on average would die each day, many more were wounded, captured, or simply vanished never to be seen again under the incessant cannonade. French guns were to fire over 10 million artillery shells with over a million of them medium-caliber and 600 thousand large-caliber siege rounds. German guns contributed in like volume and lethality.

It was new to the world. The American Civil War had ended 50 years earlier with the stunning loss of 750,000 lives – the majority from illness and not battle deaths - after four years of fighting, and here in a drab corner of France began a single uninterrupted battle which would harvest about one million causalities, of that number over 300,000 dead.

Why Verdun and why then? The ancient fortress town of Verdun had always been seen as the key to a door which blocked the way to central France from the east; if it were to fall few natural defensive features, rivers and high ground, remained to block the invaders on the road to Paris. After a year of war without any apparent interest in that route by the Germans that truth had been forgotten by the high command.

Besides its strategic value, Verdun has a unique place in French history and it’s fitting that this critical but ultimately indecisive battle was fought here. In the year 843 the three grandsons of Charlemagne divided up the old man’s empire by signing the Treaty of Verdun. It set in motion the dynamics which led to the modern states of Germany and France among others. Now eleven hundred years later the subsequent grudges and resentments built up over a millennia were going to play out with a special vengeance.

The War to End All Wars had begun a year and a half earlier with battles extended for miles along parallel lines of trenches. During that time many of the modern instruments of dealing death had been mastered and applied with deadly efficiency. Verdun quickly felt the sting of them all, plus a new one which initially terrified the surprised defenders, the backpack carried flame thrower. The French Army buckled and began a contested retreat that was to continue, meter upon bloody meter, until June when, within sight of Verdun’s walls and spires, they finally held.

An event early in the battle preordained the intensity of the butchery. The attack struck from the north and was initially aimed at Fort Douaumont, the linchpin of the area’s defense. The fort squatted on the highest of the high ground commanding the only practical approach to Verdun. For decades after the humiliating loss to the Germans in the 1870 Franco–Prussian War, France was sensitive to this place and invested its wealth and pride in a state–of–the–art structure which bristled with turtle–shell–like steel gun–turrets which could be raised and lowered, each housing artillery pieces which could be fired and quickly lowered for reloading.

On the 25th of February the unthinkable happened! Lightly manned and largely stripped of its biggest guns by an overconfident French military, Fort Douaumont itself fell, and the falling reverberated like thunder in both nations. Bells were rung and schools dismissed all over Germany in celebration, while the blow to French morale was almost fatal. The manner of its capture was singularly galling. A squad of combat engineers under a Sergeant Kunze approached the fort in heavy weather and found the wall casemates undefended. Kunze pulled himself through one and opened an access door to order in the squad and other nearby German units who quickly surprised and captured the defenders.

It would take until late October for the French to recapture Douaumont at a human cost that still numbs.

The French general staff had only sensed the German’s intent to attack at the last minute and was desperately rushing reinforcements to the area when time ran out. Too few and too late. With the fort gone it became clear that the piper had to be paid. The decision was quickly made that Verdun had to hold at any cost! “On ne passe pas “.

During the course of the fight the French army fielded 66 divisions at Verdun; by December roughly 75 percent of the entire French army had been rotated through and seen action there. The Germans employed fewer troops in all, but their number and the assets invested in the battle were sufficient to assure parity in the slaughter.

The overall battle staggered to an exhausted end in mid December when the French finally recaptured most of the line they held when it begun. Never before or since have so many fought and died for so long in such a confined area for no net gain nor strategic advantage.

Verdun’s chapter in history didn’t end then. In 1917 another nasty but smaller scale battle was fought to recover some of the remaining German–held strong points, and in 1918 the American Army fought nearby during the decisive Meuse–Argonne offensive. By Armistice Day the Americans occupied the area around Verdun.

On 31 August 1944 General Patton’s 3rd Army liberated Verdun and pushed across the old battlefield in less than 15 minutes.

The emotional impact of the Verdun tragedy is expressed in the majestic Ossuary memorial located on the battlefield containing the remains of 135,000 unidentified dead from both sides whose disintegrating bones can still be viewed through small windows running the great length of the building, and the simple as personified by some graffiti left on the wall of Fort Vaux, one of the smaller forts to fall during the battle, which read, “Austin White, Chicago, Ill., 1918 and 1944. This is the last time I want to write my name here.”

_{Harry Puncec, Lakewood, Colorado. Mr. Puncec served in the Verdun area with the U.S. Army from 1959 to 1962. One of his duties included help renovate one of the old strongpoint’s along the Maginot Line for use by NATO’s high command in the event of World War III.}

AN OBSERVATION

Dateline: 22 December 2016

Just passing along an observation. Last night Judi and I visited an old neighbor — old in every way — and got to talking about the early years of marriage back in the 60’s. Things were tight! Money was tight, we had very little ‘stuff’, we had one car of dubious dependability, and so on. Sound familiar? Anyway, on the way home afterward — we came home about 7 PM, or midnight given our age — I was thinking about how different it is for young people today. They function in a world of stuff, lots and lots of stuff. You’ve gotta have stuff to survive.

Back in our day we didn’t. Take cell phones for instance. We got to talking about car disasters and how difficult things were before cell phones. We all had our stories of how we were hung out to dry after breaking down away from home and phones. Now you call family or friends or a shop you know of from the car and they quickly come to rescue you. Hell, back then it seemed that we were constantly changing tires on the side of the road. Does anybody do that any longer? Does their new car even have a spare?

Things are better now provided you have resources (i.e. family with money) and/or a well paying job. Each generation faces a different set of problems to conquer. I remember back when my mother used to talk about the tricks used to survive during the Great Depression and I’d keep quiet because our problems paled. Kids nowadays face a complex world, treacherous in its own way, we never experienced.

Perhaps I’m just an old grouch when I mumble how easy they have it, and it occurred to me that right now we’re the ones who have it easy. NOW we got the stuff!

Harry Puncec

_{[EDITOR: God bless those who do not have all the ‘stuff’.]}

ON GUARD

Dateline: 24 December 2016

Memories of Christmas in Verdun back in 1959 overtake me each year at this time. Thinking back the impression I have of the barracks, caserne (French for ‘fort’), and town could be summed up in a word, drab. As always it was a cloudy day, no snow on the ground but cold and damp as usual. In that sense it was a totally unremarkable day.

For the life of me I can’t recall any outdoor decorations or lights. World War Two had been over not quite 15 years and there were other things that needed fixing before they had the luxury of American-style conspicuous celebration.

By late afternoon of the 25th I was thoroughly bummed out. I had been with C Company only a month and hadn’t formed any friendships yet so was missing home and family big time. To cap all that Caserne Maginot where we were stationed had a loud speaker system which was dedicated to playing Christmas music all day. “Joy to the World” definitely excluded Verdun in my mind.

By evening I had had enough. I borrowed $5 from one of the guys and walked down toward the center of town until I encountered the bar safely away from the music. Inside a few guys were talking quietly and sucking on their beer. Refuge!

At some point I had acquired the buzz I was seeking and settled down to a morose, quiet evening alone at which point a guy walked over to the jukebox, dropped in a coin, and selected “I’ll be Home for Christmas”. There was to be no escape!

Two years later things had changed. Now I was one of the ’old soldiers’ and my unit had been relocated to Etain, a small town to the east of Verdun. Our base was Caserne Sidi Brahim. My first impression was that the barracks were old stables made habitable for humans. I was wrong, they were actually rebuild after World War One for the French 6th Military district and served in that capacity until the Germans returned in 1940. They probably would have come out of the war all right but the U.S. 3rd Army under General Patton requisitioned it in 1944 and we still had them.

We had much to feel sorry about at Sidi Brahim. We were back in squad rooms with everyone shoehorned into a small area. The buildings had an inadequate heating system that struggled from the day we arrived. Only the first one or two people in the morning and evening found lukewarm water in the showers, and nobody found really warm quarters.

Memories of Etain Days are saved by an event around Christmas. The 97th sponsored an orphanage near Vitry-le-Francios and I joined the modest contingent of troops from C Company who attended the holiday party. The kids were shy yet happy, and the nuns as sweet as any out of a Hollywood flick. I recalled my few months in St. Vincent’s Orphanage as a kid so related to their confusion and surprise. The party was a big success and made even more memorable when the bus we were riding back to base slid on some black ice and smacked into some other spun out vehicles. Nobody was hurt but it seemed somehow fitting. We spent the night at a small Army base nearby and finished the trip ‘home’ in the morning.

It’s revealing that I note with irony that I remember Christmases in France better than many spend here in the States.

One of the highest duties in the military is standing guard, to stay awake at night while your buddies sleep; their lives in your hands. Looking back it’s clear that we were standing guard for the American people so that they could sleep while waiting for Santa, and today I feel safe because members of our ‘new’ military have taken our place. I hope they get warm showers from time to time.

Harry Puncec, Veteran, Company C, 97th Engineer Battalion


[Editor: Accompanying this writing was an order:]

LOOKING AT THE 60S

Dateline: 13 March 2018

I just took my Buick into the dealer for the 100,000 mile checkup so will be house-bound till tomorrow. The Rendezvous actually has 97,685 miles on it but it’s taking so long to get to 100K — over 15 years — that I just threw up my hands. There’s no problem with the SUV but they insist you change the spark plugs and change some fluids at this point. Sheee! I can’t help wondering if there’s a profit motive involved here as the bill is expected to come in around $1400. Buying a new RAV4 instead probably doesn’t make sense although they sure look good.

I have time now to reflect and marvel on my career with Uncle. I joined the Army when Eisenhower was President. Remember him? I was too young at 20 to vote in 1960 so missed out. I was stationed in Verdun back then so missed the campaign, but did read later that Kennedy won. He was still President when I got my job with the old Government Printing Office (now the Government Publishing Office) in October of ’62.

A year later I was working in the camera gallery when Johnny Canzona came in to say JFK had been shot. The first reaction was to tell Johnny that it wasn’t something to joke about — but then saw how stricken he was. We turned on the radio and everyone gathered around as the news flashes came in. Finally the one we dreaded was read, JFK had died. All the women were crying and the guys grim–faced.

Eventually we got a call from Washington telling us to lock up and go home, that we’d learn in the media when to report back to work. The guys all went to a bowling alley that was a favorite watering hole of ours and sat around drinking beer while watching the black & white TV behind the bar. There was a lot of quiet swearing and disbelief. Eventually, before I got too drunk to drive, I went home and spent the next couple days watching our old world vanish while having my heart broken a hundred times.

The 1960s were a shocking time. On the day before JFK went to Dallas the people loved and trusted our country. Five years later, Martin Luther King Jr and Robert Kennedy were dead from gun shots, American cities were seeing rioting and looting, and young men were dying in Nam. The Army I knew was now back to practicing its trade while our society convulsed.

When I hear people talking about disruptive Trump is — and he is — I remember that times have always been ‘a changing’. We are a dynamic society and change, with its handmaiden turmoil, is inevitable. An American in 1960, a mere half century ago, would not recognize us today.

And yet America abides! Harry Puncec, Veteran, Company C, 97th Engineer Battalion

TRUE ARMY STORY

Dateline: 24 March 2018

Don’t know if I ever revealed this story but here it goes. In second eight weeks training at Fort Leonard Wood during the summer of 1959 I had an accident on bridge training. We were hand pushing a partially assembled Bailey bridge forward on rollers when it began to tip forward. It was quickly stopped, pushed back a little, and allowed to drop back down. Unfortunately I didn’t get my foot out of the way and the bridge landed on my left boot. I went to the ground in real pain. After I eventually got up and started to hobble around they sent me back to the company and told to go to the base hospital.

At the hospital I was eventually seen and it was decided that I didn’t have any breaks and could return to training. It was who I encountered at the hospital which was of interest. I bumped into a guy I knew in Basic training but hadn’t seen since we graduated. He was in hospital clothing so I asked what was going on. Here’s his story.

His family lived in rural Arkansas, I believe, and had a serious medical problem that seemed to follow the generations. They all had early onset heart problems which led to permanent disability in their twenties or thirties. The family tradition was for the boys to join the Army right out of high school with the assumption that the heart problem would manifest itself eventually, and they would get a medical discharge and a permanent service–connected disability. As it so happens this guy suffered a mild heart attack on the bus while leaving base right after we were dismissed for the last time. He was waiting at the hospital while they were processing his discharge.

And you thought you had adventures in the Army.

Harry Puncec

GAME TIME

Dateline: 28 March 2018

Now let’s play “Name that Place.”

Yes, it’s a painted Caserne Maginot in Verdun circa 2004. Sorry, no prize.

Harry

ARMY ENGINEERS

Dateline: 11 April 2018

Building for Peace: U.S. Army Engineers in Europe, 1945–1991:

If you ever wanted to know a whole lot about the Army engineers in Europe from 1945 to 1991, I have just what you need. You can download an entire history book about the subject, and it runs only about 500 pages:

Source:
Building for Peace: U.S. Army Engineers in Europe, 1945–1991(PDF)

And it’s free.

Harry Puncec

EDITOR: And, thanks to Harry, we now have a more convenient hard copy of this significant 2005 Center of Military History and Corps of Engineers United States Army publication at our web site location:

Building for Peace: U.S. Army Engineers in Europe, 1945–1991(PDF)

AT ETAIN AFB, 1960

Dateline: 10 May 2018

What Goes Around, Comes Around, 2018:

I’ll be darned, this [modern–day article below] sounds like something out of our 97th Engineer past. In 1960, C Company was giving the job of repairing a leaking fuel oil system at Etain dependent housing area (see photo below). Remember? The last stop in cleansing the system was to transport the waste to a burn pit on the air base. I recall on one occasion we had dumped a couple loads of waste from a tanker truck into the base’s pit, and then added a few barrels of overaged JP4 jet fuel to give it a punch. I was standing at the edge of the pit with some of the guys from the platoon when the whole thing unexpectedly ignited. It didn’t explode exactly, more like a huge “whoosh,” and suddenly there was pitch black smoke and flames covering the pit.

Next thing I know we’re all running like our lives depended on it. When we stopped we stood their laughing our asses off. It was great to be young and quick back then. Anyway, I recalled that when I read the following:

VETERANS ASK COURT TO REINSTATE LAWSUITS OVER OPEN BURN PITS. RICHMOND, VA: Veterans and their families asked a federal appeals court Wednesday to reinstate dozens of lawsuits alleging that a government contractor caused health problems by using burn pits during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

More than 60 lawsuits allege that KBR Inc. — a former Halliburton subsidiary — dumped tires, batteries, medical waste and other materials into open burn pits, creating harmful smoke that caused gastrointestinal illnesses, neurological problems, respiratory problems, cancers and other health issues in more than 800 service members. — Denver Post wire services

LOOKING BACK, NEARLY 62 YEARS LATER

Dateline: 20 March 2021

How had the military changed me?:

In May of 1959 I had completed Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri and was home on a 15–day leave before returning to begin Advanced Training to become a Combat Engineer. After a couple days I grew bored and decided to head up to Greeley and visit some of the students I knew from college there before I had joined up. It was a pleasant day and I connected with many of my former contemporaries. Before returning home I had a heart–to–heart with Bob Shields, an extremely popular dorm mate, and he observed that I seemed older, calmer, and quieter. He said he rather liked the ‘new’ Harry. I was flattered and had to agree, I was changing.

I had been the center of the universe in my small world growing up, coddled and with a central role in my family, and in that sense was typical. The Army, I learned, doesn’t coddle and for sure didn’t value me beyond being a warm body and human asset. It was a shock to realize and changed me to my very core, and once I accepted it I was reborn.

In the Army I was trained to fulfill a mission. They didn’t seek my advice nor vote on what we were to do. For me, who had a central role in my world growing up, to finding myself part of a much larger – and subordinate to – a team was a jolting experience. It was in everything I did. I came and went, marched or ran, upon the orders of others, could be sent out into the rain or snow or great danger – and was, and had to demonstrate respect and obedience to my superiors. I also learned that just about everyone seemed to be a superior. Ultimately I was remade as a cog, a very tiny cog, in a massive war-making machine, and that machine continues to be the salvation of our nation.

To blend into such a world required me to acquire self-discipline and a willingness to subordinate myself to the mission. I became responsible to my comrades and learned that they would protect me. It’s called a brotherhood for a reason. Former military members acknowledge other veterans in a unique manner, a camaraderie that rarely develops between school mates or coworkers. It was our shared liability and unity of experience that makes us brothers and now sisters. When I left the Army in 1962 I was all grown up and strengthened with a fully-developed sense of accountability to myself, my family, my circle of friends, and community.

How profound was the impact of the military experience? Consider this, by serving we earned the right to be buried with our spouse alongside other veterans beneath the flag in a National Cemetery. Many Vets request that honor as it’s where we’re with our kindred.

ENGINEERS MAKE SMART VETERANS,
JUST ASK AN OLD ONE:

Dateline: 6 August 2021

Mandates:

“I see where there’s a movement toward mandating COVID vaccinations to keep your job, and I got to thinking about the Army. I can not recall a single instance where the medics ask how I felt about getting a shot.

Private Puncec, may I inject you with these mystery drugs?

No!

Oh please, Private Puncec, it would make me so happy.

No!

But we can’t send you overseas for a couple years if you don’t get your shots.

Oh well, in that case, Hell No.

Just can’t picture that.

Harry”

A GREAT DAY!:

Dateline: 23 April 2022

60 years ago today:

The day after Easter in 1962, it happened. I’m not sure what first woke us up – perhaps a thumping sound as the troop ship berthed at the dock – but within a heartbeat we were wide awake as this was the day we had dreamed of.

A compartment of a troop ship is deigned to house as many soldiers as can be shoehorned into a compact space and was filled with bunks stacked five or six high each with about 18 inches of vertical space. I had been advised to grab a bunk about chest high if I could but regardless NEVER take to the bottom one as it was already on the deck and could be quite unpleasant during storms at sea — if you get my drift.

There was a lot of jostling as we dressed, packed our duffle bags one last time, put them on the now stripped bunk, and shuffled off to join the line awaiting breakfast. The crowd was cheery and talkative this morning as we consumed our last meal, including a delicious roll. Clearly this was a day of ‘one last times’.

By 0900 hours we were fed and topside in our Class A Green uniforms with our duffle bags at our side as we learned our discharge number. Mine was something like 2345 and clearly I’d be one of the last to disembark.

The first to go down the gangplank saluted the rest of us with the one finger salute as they quickly stepped toward a bunch of buses for the short trip to Fort Hamilton&rsquo’s administration building. Back on the boat the rest of us were jealous as we watched them leave.

Eventually our turn came. We quickly walked down the gangplank and metaphorically stood once again in America. Actually there was no time to stop and reflect as the organizers of the process keep telling us that to doddle would delay our getting out. That keep us moving.

Arriving at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn we found a large auditorium filled with folding chairs and on each chair a clipboard with a bunch to documents, and on the top was a number matching the one we had been assigned earlier. This was a vision of an Army I had never seen before. This was fine-tuned efficiency!

Impatiently waiting for us in the room were all those first to depart the boat. Only when the last off were seated would the process begin.

An officer called for our attention and asked if there was anyone who had decided to re–enlist for them to leave the room. There was mild derision directed at the very few who departed. Next up was a Colonel who spoke for the Army and the nation to thank us for our service. Nobody would show it but we appreciated the words even if they were delivered proforma.

Finally it began. We were told to look at the top form and check the spelling of our name as they didn’t want to discharge the wrong person. We laughed. From there we would look at each document and learn its purpose, and sign it if it required a signature. They covered a bunch of topics about our record of service (DD Form 214), our final pay out as of that day, and information about our rights as a former soldier. We were assured that as civilians when we left the building we could wear the uniform home but then had to hang it up one last time.

Finally it was over and we were dismissed. From the room we went to a well–guarded financial office and drew our pay. For me it was a lot of money as it also included a travel allowance for return to Denver where I had enlisted three years, one month, and one day previously.

I walked out of the building and found a bus ready to take anyone to Penn Station in New York City. I boarded. It was 1:30 PM. I looked like a soldier on the day I was discharged and arrived at Penn Station. I was in full uniform with a single little hash mark on my sleeve to show I had served over three years. I was an authentic PFC. No longer a Private First Class but a Private F­­­ing Civilian.

There were a gaggle of us newly discharged GIs on the bus and previous buses from Fort Hamilton and we scrambled to get train tickets for home. Soon we drew together in main waiting room of Penn Station and made a little mountain of duffle bags that we were tired of dragging around. We informally rotated a couple guys every half hour or so to watch the bags while the rest scattered to look around, grab lunch, or call home from a pay phone, collect, to confirm our emancipation. We were a cheerful lot with total trust in each other.

Our numbers declined as announcements were made of tracks and times for upcoming departures. Then I heard it, the train to Pittsburgh, so I grabbed my bag and headed out. I had decided to spend a day visiting my mother’s brother and his family while I had the chance. After all I had already missed three Thanksgivings, Christmases and Easters at home so another couple days wouldn’t matter.

All the seats were taken on the train so I found a corner out of traffic and used my bag as a very rough pillow. It worked fine. All that roughing it in the Army was already paying dividends. The conductor woke me at my stop.

I got up the next day to discover that I suddenly, emotionally, needed to head home. Soon I was on a Boeing 707, my first jet ride, to O’Hare Field in Chicago and then another 707 to Stapleton Field in Denver. Passing through Stapleton I watched everyone hoping to see someone I knew. I didn’t of course. I caught a cab and arrived home to a locked up house as nobody knew I was coming. Eventually my brother Paul arrived home from high school and let me in.

Nobody thanked me for my service along the way nor did I expect to be thanked. That came decades later.

Harry

A Long, Long Time Ago:

Dateline: 22 March 2023

Slipping back in time:

64 years ago this very day, 22 March 1959, democracy was saved! The Red tide of Communism was stopped dead in its track’s and began its inevitable decline for on that very average day a remarkably skinny, four–eyed college drop-out signed the papers to join the U.S. Army. It’s astounding that the day is passing without nation–wide note or celebration or wreath laying.

Modesty prevents me from naming our hero but the tremor was felt in the Kremlin. They knew!!!

So as we privately pause today to give thanks for our salvation just remember that our hero was glad to do it for each and every one of you.

Service Number RA 17 545 0**

---

What is one of the greatest physical challenges you have ever had to go through? What gave you strength?:

Basic training in the U.S. Army was an intense nine week ordeal that tested me and I discovered qualities within that pulled me through.

Basic is that period where the army makes a soldier. All vestiges of our previous soft life was to be wiped from our mind and body while we were toughened up and taught to respond to commands instantly. And it began with a bang.

We stumbled off the buses at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri in late March of 1959 to shouts from a group of waiting sergeants. I have never before, or since, heard such a barrage of vile, obscene, demeaning comments yelled with such fervor at another human being as rained down upon us as we tried to follow their confusing orders. With every mistake, and that’s all we seemed capable of committing, new waves of abuse followed. They called us the lowest form of slime, that the very sight of us made them physically sick, and that we were a disgrace to the poorly fitting new uniform we were wearing, all the while using profanity that colored the air blue. That morning I learned a lifetime worth of filthy words and impossible sexual positions. It was a glimpse into language hell and was awesome.

The NCOs, noncommissioned officers but called drill sergeants in Basic, formed us into lines and moved up and down the line yelling at each of us in turn. I don’t remember what was said to me when my turn came, only that he stood a few inches away, definitely within my personal space, and spit on me. I’m sure he didn’t mean to spit, just that the words he hurled at me had a lot of force behind them. The other thing I remember was his breath, it was rank. It fleetingly entered my mind to say something but a survival gene that I didn’t know I had prevented me — and saved me a much harsher Basic.

The process of making a civilian into a soldier had begun. It is not pretty but effective. The NCOs wear you out, break you down, and then remade you into something else. They ran us everywhere and when we stopped they had us do pushups, or clean something. It was endless, starting before the sun come up in the morning and ending long after it set.

They demonstrated their absolute power over us often and in many imaginative ways. We had to shine our shoes and then they marched us through the mud; they ordered us outside to clean our rifles in a dust storm and then flunked us for having a dirty weapon; they required that our bunks be made so tightly every day that they could bounce a quarter on it despite the soft and pliable nature of the mattress which made it impossible. Mostly they screamed at us a lot.

To unmake our sense of self they attacked our self-image. In formation one day they asked if there were any college students or graduates in the ranks and had us fall out. Next they told all the high school graduates to form a second much larger group. Then they had us smart–ass college boys sweep across a nearby field picking up all cigarette butts followed by the second group that picked up everything else. The remaining group, called the ‘ignorant bastards’ by the NCOs, were told to watch us and try to learn something.

Every day we learned more about Army life. One day we woke to find that it was raining. Surely they’ll let us stay in today and train indoors I thought. No way! I would soon be drenched and miserable.

A typical day would start around 0430 hours with the harsh blast from a whistle. We would roll out of the sack and start dressing for the day, making our bunks and cleaning the immediate area. Soon we would fall out for morning roll call, a dose of verbal abuse to wake us, and march off to the mess hall for breakfast. Before we could eat we had to do a number of push-ups and pull ups just to ‘work the kinks out’. Once back in the barracks there would be more cleaning and a change of uniform for the days training. Then we would fall in and march off for the day’s activities, grenade training, rifle range, confidence course, or what have you. At lunch we would frequently eat in the field out of a tin mess kit, sometimes in a rain that helped blend the meal into a floating mass of mystery food. More training followed in the afternoon and then a brisk march back to the barracks for dinner. If the NCOs felt that we were getting tired of marching they would have us ‘double time’ or run a couple of miles. By evening the heat of the day and the humidity had done its work and we were thoroughly wilted. Cleaning of weapons and equipment, polishing of boots, and some class work, always followed the last meal. Finally, at 2200 hours, lights out, which meant that you could move into the latrine where the light was on all night, and maybe write a letter home.

The rifle range was located a few miles from the barracks and the army, despite having half a million trucks, insisted that we walk or run to get there. Once there we spent a couple of days clicking on empty chambers of our rifles while we learned the fundamentals of marksmanship. The lessons didn’t immediately take. On the first day that we actually fired our M1 Garand rifles a deer walked up on the embankment behind the targets just as the order to fire was given. The NCOs screamed at us to shot the deer and 50 of us each emptied an eight round clip in the direction of the animal. 400–rounds of ball ammunition was expended while the deer slowly turned away and walked down the far side of the embankment and out of sight. A couple of the sergeants screamed in despair while the other wept tears of frustration. They were very abusive the rest of the day.

Time was taken to explain how to the M1 worked and how it was assembled. The rifle was a right-handed weapon with a small extension on the bolt that you would use to open the magazine. To examine the empty chamber you pull the bolt back where it would automatically lock open. Releasing the bolt involved inserting the thumb of your right hand into the chamber while the edge of your palm held the bolt open. When your thumb encounters the release at the bottom the bolt automatically releases. If you’re not holding the spring–loaded bolt open firmly it snaps shut catching your thumb, resulting in a condition called ‘M1 Thumb’. The NCOs seemed to take special delight when they heard a scream announcing another smashed thumb. They sarcastically explained that a real soldier knows how to handle his weapon without losing a thumbnail.

What was happening to me struck with bright clarity one day while marching out to the ranges. The countryside consisted of rolling hills while the road followed the contours, and we were in two endless columns on the side of the road, the classic combat formation. At the crown of one typical hill I looked ahead and as far as I could see were GIs just like me. They were wearing the same sweat soaked fatigue uniform, carrying the same heavy backpack, a nine-pound M1 rifle slung over a shoulder, and a steel helmet pressing down on their heads. Looking back over my shoulder I could see the same sight stretching to the rear. And it occurred to me that if God were to have reached down and plucked me out of the column, nobody would have noticed me gone. My presence or my disappearance meant nothing to the Army. I was no longer a mothers precious child or a valued friend to the people I had grown up with. I had ceased to exist as an individual and had disappeared into an amphibious mass, indistinguishable from the other cells. And I was too damn weary to care.

By now you might think that I hated Basic. Well, you’d be wrong. I was secretly having a ball.

That survival gene I discovered the first day of basic began paying dividends almost immediately. I quickly learned to become invisible to the sergeants by getting in the middle of every formation and never looking directly at anyone. In the Army the First Commandment is that ‘Thou shelt never volunteer’ and I kept my hands down. My name is easy to mispronounce so I didn’t respond to anybody that didn’t get it right (I was prepared to ask “who, me?” if cornered). And I NEVER responded to “Hey, **hole!”

I was able to watch the training process with a sense of detachment. When they pointed out how useless I was, I saw it as an interesting use of the English language. I wasn’t merely useless; I was as useless as tits on a boar hog. Most descriptive terms directed at us were weighted down with obscenities. Even the cadence we sang while marching were as unlike the hymns at church as you could imagine, “I don–t know but I’ve been told, Eskimo [expletive deleted] is mighty cold.” The nuns at Saint Frances de Sales high school never employed such richness of speech.

The running and long hikes were tough but I never fell out while a lot of others did. Being skinny was paying off. This spared me the harangues of the sergeants and let me observe the process of breaking the weak. These out–of–shape slackers were like a virus in the body and the antibodies — the NCOs — ruthlessly sought their destruction. A healthy cell was mostly ignored.

The 8th week of Basic — actually the 9th as the first week was called in army parlance ’zero week‘ — was a weeklong bivouac in the bug–infested woods of Missouri and consisted of such tasks as long night marches, map reading courses, and small unit tactics. One night during a forced march through the woods I was assigned with two others to help one of the guys who suffered night blindness. We had to take his hand, hold his backpack, and lead him down nearly invisible paths until we were back to our pup tents. We spent the time wondering out loud why the Army approved recruits with night blindness but flunked guys with flat feet???

The high point of the week was a night firing exercise when we unloaded a lot of munitions at a distant hill. It was awesome to watch tracer rounds arching through the night skies like furious lightening bugs. Nobody was killed.

The days and nights while in those woods were long. Just as you dropped off to sleep you were being woken, or so it seemed. You had no idea where you were, what you were doing, and especially why you were doing it. After a few days it was all you could do to put one foot in front of the other. One day you woke to the surprising information that it was Friday and you would be going to back to the barracks the next morning.

To view a higher resolution version of the above photo, click here

My platoon from Company C, 1st Battalion, 3rd Training Regiment (Basic) at Fort Leonard Wood. (That’s me facing the camera at the far right end of the first row.) We were, I’m sure, ordered to smile.

That last night in the field was a revelation. Our platoon sergeant called us together and said he needed our help. We were going to be graduating soon and he was going to inherit a new platoon of hopeless f**kups. He needed to polish his greeting skills. With that he began to berate us as he did the first day we arrived in the company. After a momentary flashback of terror we cracked up. He was telling us that we were now in the fraternity. Laughing, we graded his effort and even suggested new insults. What a wonderful night, we had made it!

Nothing since has approached the physical or physiological ordeal of Basic.