Cross County

I've always been very honest about my, albeit short-lived, military career. I served two years in the Regular Army and a one year hitch in the active Army Reserve. No wars, no battles and no overseas deployment for me. Still, some things I consider interesting happened. This is one.


You spend a lot of time running in the Army. (No, not jogging!) In Basic Training, A.I.T. (Advanced Individual Training) and, of course, Permanent Party Duty. Most of that time is spent running in formation with dozens or even scores of other troopers. It can be fun, after a fashion, but can be quite difficult at times since you are often trapped within the group and trying to keep your feet untangled, although it becomes more or less natural, can be a problem. Ergo, there was usually a fight for the road-guard vests since that allowed you to run either in advance or arrears of the formation. Shucks, you even got to stand at every street intersection providing ample opportunity to rest and catch your breath.


There were other ways to avoid “running with the pack,” so to speak. One might be on pass, leave, sick call, duty or even one might volunteer for cross-country. I chose the latter. (Not without a little encouragement from two of my buddies: Gary C. Cutshall and Jefferey N. Radkey.)


Cross-country meant a ten-klick run. (That's 6.1 miles to you civilians.) It was less “cross-country” than up and down the streets on post. Still, there was a lot, a lot, of up and down. We would break off from the rest of the group after calisthenics and go do our own thing. We'd laugh and cut up and have a general good time. I came to enjoy running so much, that I would run sometimes on days when I didn't have to do so.

We ran against other units on post in friendly competitions. It always meant being away from my unit, which was always a plus.

One of the more memorable runs I participated in was for the Fortieth Anniversary of the 101^st Airborne Division. The entire week was a blast with celebrations of myriad sort and exhibitions and mock battle. The day of the run was, more-or-less, the end of festivities. There were runners from, I suppose, all over the world. Many came to the run from other divisions. All told, there were over a thousand participants that day.

We ran and ran and ran and ran. Uphill and downhill. Meandering our way though the streets of Ft. Campbell. They actually had water stations set up along the way and I grabbed the occasional paper cup to help me through the very hot day. When I reached the end of the course, my pals were waiting on me, (yes, they were faster,) and they cheered me on as I came closer to my destination, finally sprinting across the finish line. I was pleased to be told that I actually finished in the top one hundred of the runners that day. Not a small achievement, considering my flat feet and that there were many guys and gals there tougher than I.


I normally did well on these runs. I never finished first, but never finished last. Was I the strongest? Was I the fastest? Nope, I think not. I did have a secret to my, shall I say, success, though. I was persistent and determined. I'll explain exactly what I mean.


While traveling along the post streets, crowded with runners, I observed many who were falling by the wayside, “falling out” we called it. Many slowing down and, even, quite a few, just walking. I knew if I simply kept a steady pace, I'd easily leave many of them behind. The method that I employed, though, that allowed me to advance furthest of all among the multitude, was what happened on any incline we reached.


Most people tend to slow down when going uphill, but not me! No, this was where I, shall we say, shined. As everyone else was slowing down, I would actually pour on the steam. This not only allowed me to pass a few, but I would pass many more even than I might have. It was a system that worked without fail against the average weaker and slower runners. Not so much so against the really strong contestants, but, hey, I was never going to catch them anyway.


So, today, looking back, knowing that I once could and would run all those miles and actually enjoy it, astounds even myself to this day. It was a great experience and the memories I enjoy and the lessons I learned have been invaluable to me down through the decades.

The First Time

I remember the first time I joined the Army. Yes, I actually joined the Army twice, but only served once.

I had been out of high school for probably less than a year and was barely eighteen. At the time, I was working at the Athens Table Company operating a tenon saw.

Simply put, it was a large, dangerous, double-bladed saw designed to shape the edges of boards so they could be built into things like...desks and tables. I got the job because the guy who was working the saw got his hand caught in it and, though he kept his hand, I'm not so sure that it ever was the same. (I do remember him actually returning to work there some time thereafter.) So, I was offered a raise and a transfer from a press that I was then operating.

After some months of doing this job and realizing that it, like my life, was dead end and that there was no real hope for a future there for me, I got the notion to talk to an Army recruiter and see what he had to offer. He had some wonderful words to say about college money and travel in Europe. I would be attending Basic Training at Ft. Dix, New Jersey, (coincidentally where dad had had his basic before being shipped to Africa to fight Nazis,) and showed me on a map where I would be stationed in Deutschland to listen in on Communist radio broadcasts. (Yes, the U.S.S.R. was still alive and kicking back then.) It all sounded very fascinating and terrifying.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more terrifying it became. I was eighteen, legally an adult, but awfully, awfully immature. I mean, ridiculously so! That's when things got worse.

One early morning on the job, as was occasionally the case, there was no work for me on my machine, so they sent me to work on another. Sometimes, it was a table saw and sometimes a band saw and, as was the case this morning, a double-bladed router.

I had used them before and had a very good idea of how to use them, but, for some reason, I wasn't exactly on my game this day. It was cold and I was thinking that my fingers were numb when a really, really stupid idea popped into my head. A pipe was set up on the table just so that it would blow shavings away from the blades and I noticed that the air coming out was actually warm. Before I thought, I put the fingers near the tube, which was, of course, too near the blades and, before I knew, I had clipped the ends off of my fingers. I remember vividly the piles of sawdust around my machine being splattered with my very own blood!

I called my boss over, he said some choice words and someone took me to the hospital. They bandaged my hands and sent me back to the job for paperwork. After that, I went home, in less pain than you might've imagined. (The real pain was, a couple of days later, when the nurse at the factory removed the bandages that were stuck with dried blood to my fingers.)

So, the next thing I had to do was contact my recruiter, who set up a very brief appointment with a recruiter doctor who said, "Well, you can't do pushups with that hand." I was given a postponement, but was hoping for a little more.

This entire episode resulted in me spending several weeks at home with mom and dad, but no paycheck. Yes, maybe I should've been paid somehow, but was too ignorant to know how those things worked.

As it was, I was, frankly, more and more afraid of leaving hearth and home and momma's apron strings, to go off on the adventure of a lifetime with Uncle Sam's Army. To make it worse, things were tough around the house financially and physically. Dad had not been sick for very long, and I was stuck with too much time to worry, be afraid and wallow in my own, dare I say it, cowardice.
After some time, I contacted my recruiting sergeant and attempted to explain my predicament. I can't say he was exactly happy with my new found reluctance, but, looking back, he was more helpful than I deserved. He set up an appointment with his boss, a captain who I was to meet me in Knoxville, for a discussion concerning my desire to get out of my commitment through, what was called, a "hardship."

I talked to the captain, attempting to retain some modicum of dignity, never realizing I was actually failing miserably. He did, ultimately, recommended me for a discharge from the Delayed Entry Program (D.E.P.) He told me that, as a caveat, I could not join any branch of the military for three years. I had no problem with that. Then he said some words to me that I've never forgotten and that I was too young, naïve and downright stupid to appreciate. He said that he hated for me to not go because I "would've made a hell of a soldier!"

I came home, greatly relieved, but none the wiser. I didn't even go back to the Table Company to tell them of my non-military situation. I only knew that I didn't want to go back there and sought new employment.

I found a job waiting tables at Western Sizzlin' Steak House. As far as I know, I'm the first waiter they ever had there.

Three plus years passed and my life was still going nowhere. So I decided to, once again, give some serious thought to the military. I was a little older, if only slightly more mature, and had still not gotten it out of my blood. I suppose being reared on John Wayne and apple pie, not to mention being a baby-boomer son of a WW II veteran as well as a brother to a Vietnam veteran, it was fairly natural for me to want to give at least of couple of years of my life to serving our country in uniform.

So, I told dad I was going to Cleveland to the recruiter’s off to talk to the Air Force. I thought that they would provide the best opportunity for some technical training that might prove useful after my hitch was up. I came home telling him I was, for a number of reasons, joining the Army instead. Dad was amazingly agreeable about the entire episode.