I Was a Soldier Then and Young

I'm old enough to remember when the majority of the men I knew were veterans. Most never saw combat and maybe didn't even deploy, but all wore the uniform proudly, learned patriotism and answered our nation's call serving honorably. It was a more or less shared experience and brotherhood among them. A little boy, such as myself, always took great notice of this. 
My Army career was short and comparatively uneventful. I can honestly say, though, that I served with honor if not distinction. I'm fond of saying that I defended the free world against the communist hordes while driving my truck at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky. (Where I almost hit a dear once.) 　
A big reason I joined up was because I had no prospects and nothing else to do. My father being a WW II vet and my brother having served in Vietnam, along with a host of other kinsmen who served our country in uniform over the generations, also had no small influence on my desire to be a soldier. At twenty-one years of age, I finally decided that it was something I wanted to do with my life. I guess I thought I'd see what Uncle Sam had to offer.

Not to digress too much, but I had actually joined the Army when I was eighteen. I was going to be sent to radio school and then off to Germany to listen in on the Commies' radio transmissions. I was on the verge of leaving, when I got injured at work causing a delay in my orders and a prolonged stay at home. I asked for and received a hardship release from my promise of service. It was a dark time for me!
　
I bounced from job to job and still, three years afterward, had no real prospects, plans or direction. I did still have the itch, though. So, I decided to go talk to the Air Force. Dad thought that was a good idea. I came home telling him I was going in the Army. I explained that they made a better offer.
　
It might be of interest to give a little detail about my little trip to the recruiter's office in Cleveland. I, of course, initially talked to the Air Force. The sergeant seemed okay, but I think I recall him struggling with a video machine and I told him I'd walk the hall until he was ready. Frankly, he scared me a little when he said I had to sign up for a four year hitch. (I didn't go back.)
　
I found myself talking to the Navy next. I don't think I was too keen on the thought of being on a ship. I like the ground. As I recall, this was during that short stint of time where they had gotten away from the Cracker Jack uniform. That was disappointing. I always thought it was cool. I don't have much memory of them, but apparently they didn't offer anything in which I was interested. Importantly, they wanted a three year hitch.
　
I wound up meandering into the Marine Corps' office and talking to a young sergeant there. He was lean, high and tight and impeccable. He seemed cool and even showed me a lot of pictures of him bull-riding. Yeah, for real! They had awesome uniforms, but I wasn't sure about those guys. I also wasn't sure just how gung-ho I was.
　
Lastly, I piddled my way into the Army recruiter's office. There I saw SFC Thompson sitting behind a desk with, what I call, an Air Force hair cut, a pot belly and a mustache that was definitely not regulation. I had found my home! Yes, to a young, ignorant, immature kid like myself, he said those magic words: two year hitch! (With qualifications, of course.)

I was told that I needed to do well on the ASVAB. (I had taken it in high school, but the lapse of time since then required me to retest.) Then, my career choices would be restricted because of the short enlistment. I more or less aced it and decided that electronics, radio school, would be a good choice. If you're an Army vet, you know you don't learn a lot of electronics in radio school. I, of course, didn't know.
　
I had several "firsts" upon joining the service. My first hotel stay, my first taxi ride, my first plane ride. I rode a school bus, but not like the one that arrived with me and the rest of my fellow trainees at the Ft. Leonard Wood Reception Center. (There was some confusing explanations given to us about the actual use of the word "trainee" when referring to recruits.) For obvious reasons, trainees always arrive at zero-dark-thirty when they are brought to a military post for the first time. It's all part of the shock therapy, I suppose.
　
Haircuts, shots, uniforms, shots, boots, how to brush your teeth, shots, paperwork, the basics of marching, shots, gig lines, barracks and more shots. That was the reception center. A week there and we were already beginning to walk and talk like real soldiers. (At least we thought so.)
　
While there, I remember they called several of us out of formation, sending us to some old barracks that had been converted into classrooms. There we were told we had scored particularly high on our ASVAB and were going to take a test to see if we could pass a Special Forces crash-course for learning new languages. I passed with a point to spare, but, of course, never took the course.
　
It was weird and silly, but at that time, Army regulation had stopped D.I.'s from calling us "trainees" and we weren't supposed to call them "Drill Sergeant." So much for tradition. Thank you Jimmy Carter! Reagan had only been in office for a short while and I'm pretty sure that little silliness was done away with finally.
　
Incidentally, both President Reagan and Pope John Paul II were shot during my sojourn in Missouri. Actually, Reagan was shot the day I left home.
　
Basic Training was intense and, yes, it was the most physically and mentally challenging thing I've ever done in my life. SFC Johnson and SSGT Ligon made sure it was. (They were truly awesome! Respect!) No, you never, NEVER forget the name of your drill sergeant! BTW, it's Basic Training in the Army and Air Force. Boot Camp is for Navy boys.
　
Oh, one thing: the GAS CHAMBER!
　
I was proud, after an interview with Sgt. Johnson, to be chosen as an assistant squad leader. Mostly it meant extra work for me. I had to make sure guys did their push-ups and such before bunking out. I was 4th squad assistant so that meant I was always at the very end of formation on forced marches. That is a story in itself!
　
My recruiting sergeant, Sergeant Thompson seemed to like me and had talked a lot about me being a "home town recruiter" after AIT. I took him at his word and, after much, much, MUCH chasing and calling and running and harassing and doggedness, my orders were cut to go home for thirty days TDY. (Temporary Duty)
　
It was fun and mostly involved running errands and calling a list of high school grads and talking to them about their future. I got cussed out by at least one momma. It was fun calling and introducing myself as "Private Davis." Actually, it was kind of cool.
　
I can remember at least one occasion where SFC Thompson would stop one of the other sergeants and have him listen to me work the phone. Yeah, I was pretty good at talking.
　

I can honestly say, I helped four guys get in, but SFC Thompson said they didn't count for me and it was time for me to go back to being a soldier. I was issued orders to report to the reception center at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky. I must admit, it was surreal. I had never arrived at a military base alone, but I was delivered to the right people and, as I was properly tagged, got settled into temporary barracks and moved to my permanent party just a couple of days later.

　

I remember some of the names of friends, though none of the names of foes. (No, I didn't get along with everybody there.) We had First Sergeant Stewart, an Alabama boy through and through. Captain Zaparini, (We called him Captain Zap or just Cap Zap.) He seemed like a very cool guy. Very Scandinavian looking. A couple of my friends were Spec 4 Jeffery N. Radkey and Spec 4 Gary C. Cutshall. Cutshall and I were on again off again friends. He could be a real ass at times! Cutshall did get me transferred from commo to supply, though. So, bless him for that!

　

I was really glad to be moved to supply, because I didn't get along at all with my Knoxville native section chief. He was a young buck sergeant with a mustache that looked like he trimmed it with a butter knife. Looking back, though, I blame my self, mostly. Sometimes, I can be a real ass!

　

I wound up having several jobs. Mostly involving driving. And always as the "assistant." Which meant I did all the driving. I was assistant driver for the old man, but his specialist did all of his driving. Still, I got to drive for Top and the CO.

　

Oh, yeah. I loved my jeep!

　

I also was assistant armorer which meant I got the job of always guarding the weapons when we were on a post problem of some sort. It also meant I got to pack a bone fide Colt M1911. They actually gave me three rounds which I kept in a clip on my ammo belt. I was supposed to defend the armory with those if any one ever tried to raid it. If I had locked and loaded for any reason short of that, I would've went directly to jail. I would not have passed go; I would not have collected two hundred dollars.

　

For that reason, they sent me to armorer school. I was taught to take a 45 caliber apart and put it back together again. So, even though I carried that particular side-arm intermittently for a year and a half, they never sent me to the range with it and I never fired it. Welcome to the U.S. Army!

　

Since I was HQ, we had a pretty good mess hall. I remember the chow being good and also plentiful. Lots of milk and eggs as you please every morning. Some sort of chicken was served with every meal.

　

"P.T." five days a week, of course. It usually consisted of twenty minutes or so of what you might call calisthenics and then a run in formation of about two miles. I always tried to volunteer for road guard. That way, I wasn't crammed in the formation and you even got occasional rest stops.

　

Cutshall talked me into volunteering for the cross-country team. That meant I rarely ran with the battery anymore, but it also meant I ran further. We trained for "ten klick," ten kilometer runs. How do you train for a ten kilometer run? You run fifteen kilometers! BTW, ten klicks is equal to 6.1 miles. Yeah, I could run that far and further back then. I actually thought it was fun. Though, I do blame my current hip problems on the hundreds of miles I ran in the Army. No purple heart for me, though. ha!

　

The males had the top floor of a three story barracks. It was actually two man rooms lining a hallway. We had a day-room with a TV and it was mostly on sports, of course. Some day rooms had a beer vending machine, but I don't recall ours having one. The bottom two floors belonged to a combat engineer battalion who must've thought it was hilarious to turn the heat off to the building when they were out on a "field problem." They were engineers, so they were on field problems a lot! I can remember my breath freezing as I lay under the covers on cold winter nights.

　

We celebrated the fortieth anniversary of the 101st Airborne Division while I was there. It was quite a big deal. They put up tents and had tanks and fly overs and mock battles and more. Thousand of us stood on the parade ground while, then Secretary of Defense, Casper Whineberger made a speech. I couldn't see or hear him, though. A lot of guys fell out due to the heat and being out in the direct sunlight for a couple of hours. (They likely forgot not to lock their knees too.)

　

I was really gung-ho and ready to be a good soldier once I was finally at permanent party. I even attended Air Assault School, but flunked out. That was actually a very normal thing and they allow you to return and redo what you missed. It's for another blog, but I got some really bad advice and never finished what I started. Honestly, it's easy to spread blame, but my attitude really started going downhill after that. I was a grown man, though, and should've made my own decisions about my own life. Did I mention before how immature I was?

　

Well, my time was over and I was waiting for midnight to hit the trail and start my "terminal leave." That meant that I had saved up some leave days and could go home early. The CQ let me go an hour early and I headed out the door and climbed into my old Malibu. Just before that, I threw a pair of my boots into the tree outside my barracks. They were not alone.

　

I drove to Gate 4, and pointed my car toward Nashville and haven't been back since. The coolest thing happened though. Something that was almost like fate. I, of course, had my a.m. radio tuned to my favorite rock station and, just as I made a right face out of Gate 4, what should come over the radio? "You're No Good," by Linda Ronstadt. Yeah, that was cool!

　

In all honesty, I have many regrets from my little military career. I could've gotten more education and seen more sights and gotten more training. I had different priorities back then and regrets now. I also didn't treat some people the way a good Christian should. Again, I was still very immature then. I also didn't really realize what I was doing and the significance of the whole matter. Age sometimes, sometimes offers enlightenment we would've preferred to have decades earlier.

　

So many events occurred during my short tenure at Ft. Campbell. Running, driving, eating, repelling, sleeping, shooting, training, hurrying up and waiting. When you average a twelve hour day, five, sometimes six, days a week, occasionally seven, there is much, much goings on going on. Most of which is doldrums and repetition. But, hey, it sure beats going to war!

Sam Elliot Would Be Proud!

When I was a kid, I thought growing a mustache would be cool. I started shaving a little late though, and carried a peach fuzz mustache much later than I should've. I only actually started shaving, and that only my upper lip, because a mean kid at school poked fun at me. I only waited so long because I was afraid someone would figure out I had started shaving. Yeah, I know. 　
So, when I was at Ft. Campbell, I decided it was time to grow a mustache. As it turned out, I could!
　
Now, the Army allows mustaches. I'm sure you've seen lots of soldiers wearing them. But there are very particular regulations concerning their shape and size. They must be tapered and not extend beyond the edges of your mouth.
　
My mustache was regulation for a while, but I got lazy, cocky and stupid and let it start getting bushy. No, it was not regulation. This went on for long enough to get me into some trouble.
　
I just happened to be at the motor pool one day when I bumped into my old section chief from commo. Though he was from Knoxville, we never could seem to get along. (I blame myself.) He made a remark about me needing to trim that mustache back and I retorted that as long as the "man with the diamond on his collar didn't mind," he shouldn't worry about it. (Or words to that effect.) Technically, my many jobs at that time, driver, driver, driver, made the Top Sergeant my boss. I guess I thought I was ten foot tall and bullet proof. Mostly, I was just a jack ass!
　
Later that day, at the after dinner muster formation, among the many announcements Top made was that he wanted to see Private Davis at the end of the day. This caught my attention. (This might've actually been the morning muster the day after my little difference of opinion with the Knoxville sergeant.)
　
I followed my crew to the supply section wondering exactly what it was Top wanted from me. I even asked Sgt. Thompson, my crazy Puerto Rican section chief, if he thought it might be my mustache. He replied that that was certainly a possibility. I informed him that I thought I should go to the barracks and deal with my little issue. He seemed to agree.
　
I got to my room, collected my shaving gear, made a bee-line for the latrine, took one look in the mirror and decided there was only one way to deal with this problem: remove it!
　
I returned to the supply section, completed whatever tasks Sgt. Thompson or whomever else had for me and reported to final muster formation with the rest of my crew. I was still about terrified, but hoped my extreme acquiescence at least would lessen the punishment for my as yet to be revealed crimes. (When the Top Sergeant says he wants to see you at the end of the work day, especially with that look and that voice, you know its not to give you a medal for service.)
　
Well, Top did his thing, called for reports, made his announcements and dismissed the battery with nary a word about me. I was perplexed and probably even more fearful. What was going on now?

I turned to my sergeant, who looked as confused as me. I asked him if we shouldn't talk to Top. He agreed we should. We then went after Top with me following close on his heels.
　
We called out to him as he was walking back to HQ. He turned back to us and Sgt. Thompson asked if he didn't want to see Private Davis. He looked directly at me and replied, pointing to his lip and said, "No! The soldier I wanted to see had a @#$%-ing mustache down to here!" He then spun on his heels and again headed for HQ.
　
I was stupefied and stood for a minute trying to figure out what just happened. I finally looked at my chief, who looked back at me. I won't say we smiled, but we both had a similar look of relief on our faces.
　
I definitely dodged a bullet in that little escapade. Yes, I was stupid enough to challenge an NCO, but I was smart enough to not challenge THE NCO! Oh, also, I never grew another mustache for the rest of my time in the Army.

The Most Fun I Had in the Army

    It was common for me to be assigned to various details during my little sojourn at Ft. Campbell, Ky. I even acquired a nickname from some of my pals due to my habitualness of receiving such assignments . They called me the "Divarty Dog." The short explanation is, I was assigned to divarty, Division Artillery, and to "dog" someone, as in civilian life, is to harass them. Ergo, "Divarty Dog."
　It reached the point that I would normally just volunteer when they asked for personnel to do the variety of crappy post duties that came up on a nearly daily basis. I decided, like Syciphus, I should just accept my fate and just daily push my boulder uphill.

　One time, though, I volunteered for a duty that lead to some of the most fun I had while in the service. It was an "aggressor detail."

　Now, I wouldn't claim I knew exactly what I was getting into, but if I had've, I would've jumped at the chance even more quickly. It was initially, more or less, one of those things I just sort of fell into.

　There were about a dozen to twenty of us on the detail. They gathered us together and issued us tan uniforms, (which I wore over my old ones,) explaining that they were intended to simulate Russian uniforms. It was then that we were turned over to a lieutenant I didn't know. He informed us that it was to be our job, over the next two or three days, to go to the field and harass some infantry and artillery units already out on bivouac. We were supposed to make them feel as if they were being attacked by a foreign force.

　You know, Army games.

　Well, this sounded like a ton of fun to me!

　Better still, they issued us laser tag style type equipment for us to wear. It was like LBE (load bearing equipment) and had large, ruby red, jewel looking, I don't know what to call them, crystals on the suspenders and on the helmet strap. They were about a third the size of a cupcake and basically the same shape. Sort of. Also, we were issued laser devices for our weapons that sent a signal every time we fired them. Of course, we were issued a lot of blank rounds. The whole idea was, these would beep if we were shot by someone with similar equipment and would sustain the beep if we were, well, killed. Someone would have to come along with a key to turn of the beeping and only, as I recall, our lieutenant had a key.

　So, they took us out in a truck that morning and dropped us off somewhere in the vicinity of the "enemy." Our LT then gave us some vague orders concerning our mission and we advanced on the opposition encampment. We did this same basic thing four or five times over the course of our detail.

　True to form for the Army, we did a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. On, I believe the third day, some of the less mature members of our group, becoming bored while waiting and upset that lunch was very late, began firing their weapons on full auto into the air. A lot! They seemed to be enjoying it very much. I thought it was silly and wasteful and figured they'd get into trouble, but, best I recall, no one did.

　There were a couple of more instances that stand out particularly in my mind during this, for me, once in a life-time joy ride.

　Once, we were told to attack an artillery encampment in hopes of taking out some of the guys in machine gun nests surrounding and, presumably, protecting them. If possible, we were told, it would be better still to push the attack to the artillery men at their Howitzers. We tried to be stealthful, but the rat-a-tat-tat from a gun nest ahead of us resulted in a lot of sustained beeps around me and the knowledge that we had definitely lost the element of surprise.

　For some reason, maybe the guys operating the M60 were distracted, but I was able to come upon them unnoticed. I quickly proceeded to fill them with lead. Yeah! Okay, imaginary lead.

　Remembering what the LT said about taking the ammo of any captured or destroyed troops, I grabbed their ammo can and ran for it. I could hear their confused protests behind me. They, being dead, were not quite sure if I was out of line or was allowed to do such a forward thing.

　At this point, I think I had one other troop with me. So, we worked our way further into the camp. Alas, my partner soon caught one and I was left alone. Seeing no means of escape and sensing the chance for triumph, I decided to rush the cannon about fifteen yards to my front.

　AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

　I ran as fast as I could, trying to keep a low profile, firing my weapon the entire time, hoping to go out in a blaze of glory and take all of those bastards I could with me! Well, I covered about two thirds of the distance when I heard much rapid fire on my right flank and loud, sustained beeping on my person. I fell dead. (And very dramatically, I might add.) They got me!

　Okay, that was the end of that little fiasco. Actually, not quite.

　As I lay there in my own blood, imaginary, of course, gasping for my last breath, I heard someone's voice inquiring about the soldier who had daringly charged those machine-guns. He seemed quite pleased about it and went on for about a half a minute about how soldierly it was. I turned my head to see who was so glad that I had rushed to certain death and saw a fatigued man with an eagle on his collar standing amidst a small group of similar men of lesser rank.

　I was so proud, I was resurrected!

　Yeah, that was fun!

　It was possibly the next day and we were back out in the field again. We were dropped by the side of a road and, while our LT was explaining our mission, we were suddenly attacked. I remember hearing bang, bang from across the road and, perhaps, seeing soldiers in the tree line. (It was almost like they were waiting for us.) I heard myself beep and heard long sustained beeps of my fellow troops who were, uh, KIA. I ducked my head and ran! It was all I could think to do.

　I ran, yes, but I didn't forget the mission. The LT had time, before the "firefight," to, more or less give us our orders. We were, if possible, to find a way to infiltrate the enemy camp and, if possible, turn off their generators. I don't know, looking back, just how serious he was, but I took the man at his word.

　Somehow, I don't know how, but I had a vague idea where the enemy was. So, I began to try to work myself around through the woods to their campsite. I knew I was getting warm when I heard the rat-a-tat-tat from a guard post. I heard myself beep, but kept moving. They didn't pursue me, so, before I knew it, I was actually inside their perimeter. Now, generators, especially big ones designed to provide a lot of power, are noisy. This makes them fairly easy to find. Especially, when they are unguarded. (As these were.) So, being as sneaky as I could, I spied them, trotted over, found the switches, and turned them off.

　Mission accomplished!

　I can only guess that the brass somewhere in the compound were, uh, praising the Lord for their sudden and, to them, I'm sure, inexplicable loss of power.

　I don't even know how I got back to my squad. I wasn't killed or captured. I just remember being back with them. I must've told what I did, but don't recall anybody bragging or complaining about my great victory.

　On our last day, it was a similar situation. I snuck around a lot. I charged machine gun nests. I shot people. I stole a lot of ammo. I don't recall a lot of my people being with me. Frankly, I think they lacked my enthusiasm.

　I did have very valuable lesson reinforced in the midst of this adventure. We were taught in Basic Training that, while it is a great weapon, the m16 requires a lot of maintenance and cleaning. It doesn't like dirt!

　After three days of running through the woods, lying in dirt and firing my weapon a lot, I mean a lot, it finally jammed! There was nothing to be done. It would fire no more. The US Army hadn't bothered to issue me a cleaning kit. (There were plenty back in the armory.) In my job, I suppose they never thought I'd need one and I, being a lowly private, didn't really foresee such a problem. In my defense, I really had no idea I'd be on this job for so long.

　So, I found myself sitting in a depression in the ground and being depressed that I was now, frankly, useless. I looked up when I suddenly heard voices and saw a couple of opposition force soldiers standing over me.

　I was captured! Yes, I was now a P.O.W. Sadly, I spent a very short stint as their prisoner.

　They were as surprised and perplexed as I was at my discovery. They even asked me what they should do with me. For some reason, I said something to the effect of, "Just shoot me, I guess."

　They did. I heard the sustained beep that told me that I was, finally, dead.

　(This was my first experience with war crimes.)

　Yes, I had a blast those three days. I never got to do such a thing again, but would've in a heartbeat. The rest of my group, not so much so, I think.

　I've always said it was as close as I ever got to being a "real soldier."

　Frankly, now that I have the wisdom that age brings, I realize I'm glad that is as close as I ever got.

Kitchen Patrol and the Motor Pool

Everyone in the Army eventually pulls k.p. (Kitchen Patrol) It sounds very different than it works out to be. The name belies the fact that it means, you scrub a lot of dishes in the mess hall. Occasionally, the mess hall is in the field. Which is even more fun.

Well, I found myself for several days pulling k.p. out on a field problem (bivouac) and I was none too happy about it. Most of the time, it was only a day or two commitment, but at five plus days of scrubbing pots and pans and dishes in a heated trash can full of water, well, I was pretty much over it!

Now, this story isn't about k.p. It's about something I heard while there.

I heard there had been a terrible accident in the motor pool. It turned out to be more than rumor.

Our motor pool covered at least five acres of building and vehicles. Vehicles of all types. Trucks, jeeps, gamma goats and more.

Now, I never fired a gun in the army, but I was assigned to the field artillery. (Guns for you civilians, usually means cannons.) So, we had a half dozen or eight, I forget the exact number, artillery pieces kept stored in the motor pool. Anyway, there were some 105mm Howitzers along with some 155mm Howitzers. The latter were big as a small house. Incidentally, I was fortunate enough to see them in action on one occasion.

When I was finally relieved, I returned to the rear and enjoyed a long, hot shower, a hot meal with chairs and a fresh uniform.

Most of what I did involved driving so, I don't recall if it was on my initial return or, perhaps the next day, that I saw with my own eyes what all the talk was about. Yes, it's something I remember vividly.

At that time, at least in our motor pool, for any vehicle larger than a pickup truck, we were required to have a pedestrian walking in front of the vehicle until we could exit the motor pool. (I only dealt with this a very few times myself.) This, of course, applied to the trucks pulling the big Howitzers. I think their idea was to try to avoid any accidents in motor pool.

The story was told that a young soldier was walking in front of a truck pulling a big 155. He was just a soldier, minding his own business, following his orders. I don't know if they ever determined exactly what happened. It seems another vehicle was passing his vicinity and, somehow, he fell and landed under the wheels of the Howitzer. No, he didn't survive.

Well, the m.p.'s followed up with an investigation. I imagine they asked a lot of questions and filed a lot of paperwork. One, at least in my mind, bizarre thing they did was draw with paint a red outline of the deceased soldier's body. (You know, like in the crummy television detective shows.)

Now, oddly enough, only about half of our motor pool was paved. I don't know if there was any intent to complete paving it or not, but it was just that way for the year and a half I was there. Unfortunately and coincidentally, the accident occurred in the parking area that was paved. This meant that the red paint outline was more permanent that it might've been had the event occurred on gravel.

So, for the next year or more, the motor pool retained a macabre memorial to the poor waif who had lost his life in the line of duty in the DIVARTY (Division Artillery) motor pool at Ft. Campbell, Ky.

Here, it gets even more morbid. (Though ya might not think it possible.) In their desire to gather as much info about the calamity as possible, they not only outlined the poor soldier's body, but where parts of his head had splattered.

Yes, the story was that the cannon actually rolled over his head. This must've been accurate because there were little circles and big circles as much as, I suppose, twenty feet away from where the headless outline of his body was drawn.

I was fortunate enough to have never had to fire my weapon in anger and no one ever tried to kill me during my brief military service. I wouldn't in any way try to compare to what would be classified as a tragic auto accident to anything a soldier sees in combat. Still, I'll never live long enough to unsee that decapitated outline of a poor young man who, although surely ready and willing to go where he was sent to die for his country, could've never imagined that a routine trip to the motor pool would've cost him and his family so dearly that day.

I would always try, and usually succeded, to avoid walking or driving over that spectre emblazened there in the pavement.Sometimes, thought, it just couldn't be avoided.

Anytime after that, if I had a pedestrian guarding my way out of the parking lot, you can imagine how conscious I would be of him. Anytime after that, if I was the pedestrian guarding a vehicle on the way out of the parking lot, well, you can imagine how self-conscious I was.

If that was the point of military police in leaving that sad reminder in the asphalt for the rest of us to see every day, well, let's just say they certainly achieved their goal!