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!

How to Change a Tire in the Army

Though I graduated from Radio School in  Ft. Gordon, GA,  I spent most of my time driving during my stint in the Army. I drove everything from jeeps, (which the Army called a quarter-ton truck,) to five-ton trucks. I was even "licensed" to work certain types of generators.

As a private and a driver, I was required to do some fairly heavy maintenance on my vehicles. I never pulled an engine or such, but I did have to change tires on occasion and I don't mean just taking off the lug-nuts and putting on a spare. I mean removing the tire from the rim and putting a new one on. This didn't happen very often, but, as I considered myself to be somewhat mechanically inclined, I didn't mind so much.

One fine day, I was just at the beginning of going through the process of replacing a tire. I, for whatever reason, had one lying on the floor and I was working my way toward separating the rim from the tire. Ere long, I noticed Captain What's-his-name standing over me, just watching the show. (I don't think any of us liked him and I've just completely forgotten his name.) I tried to ignore him and go about my business, but he soon began bragging to me how he had been a "motor pool officer" when he first got in the service and continued to go on and on about how he could do so much on a vehicle, etc. I politely acknowledged his banter.

Now, this is where it got really interesting. Before I knew it, he was down on the floor next to me struggling to finish remounting this tire. I was, frankly taken aback by his action.

Here's the deal. If I had thought he was trying to be helpful, I would've appreciated his hands-on leadership, but I'm convinced, even today, that he was less concerned about helping a private than showing what he was capable of doing.

And then, it got even weirder. Next thing I know, Lt. Dorch, (yes, I remember his name,) obviously, seeing his commander down on his hands and knees, couldn't feel comfortable just standing by and watching. Boom! He was soon right beside the CO, hands on the tire, wrestling to finish my nearly finished job.

As for me, there was little I could do and little room in which to do it. So, I did what any self-respecting, intelligent, wily private would do, I stood up, stepped back, crossed my arms and just enjoyed the show.

After a few minutes, no more than three or four I'm sure, it began to dawn on my Captain exactly what was going on in this little scenario. He looked up, saw me standing there smiling, stood up and said, "Finish up here, soldier."

"Yes, sir!" I said, smiling.

There really, as I recall, wasn't a whole lot left to do, but I finished it well, remounted the tire to my vehicle and chalked one up for the little people.

Supply Gofer

I had the best job in the Army. I was a "Supply Gofer." Now, for some few in the civilian world, those  whohaven't watched any war movies, a little explanation of that nom de guerre is in order.

Have you ever seen the t.v. show "Mash"? Remember "Radar" O'Reilley? He was the medical unit gofer. (At least, that was the impression they gave.) As the show progressed through its seasons, he was grew to be more of a personal secretary and clerk for the Colonel, though.

I was originally in the commo section, (communications,) HHQ Divarty, but had the good sense to get a military driver's license early on. Sadly, I didn't get along so well with my commo section chief. (In hind-sight, mostly my fault.) So, a good buddy of mine who was an "acting jack" E-5, got me a transfer to supply. They needed a gofer.

I knew the guys in supply, so felt right at home very quickly. Sgt. Thompson, my new section chief, was an amiable Puerto Rican who took a liking to me very quickly. He would often refer to me as "my private." Yes, I was, very soon, a PFC, but I never felt insulted. I felt he always meant it kindly.

Now, there are different types of "gofers" in the Army, but being "supply gofer" is the best by far. The ideal, obviously, is that you are the guy who, when they need someone to go for something, you are the one they send. Thus, go for, "gofer." It basically means you spend a lot of time behind the wheel of a vehicle or sitting in warehouses and offices waiting to pick up something or to drop something off.

Once, I actually volunteered for New Year's Day duty when I knew our unit was going to get that assignment anyway. I knew for me it meant driving troops to different guard points around the post. I felt sorry, a little, for the guys and gals walking perimeter that cold night while I sweated in my big five-ton with the heat on full blast. I even slept in the cab that night, (when I had time to sleep.) I woke up hearing them looking for me in the barracks and, as I recall, was unsure if I should actually let them know where I was.

In performance of my various duties, I drove several different vehicles for the Army. Everything from a one-quarter ton truck, (a jeep), to a five-ton truck to a six-quarter ton truck, (a gamma-goat.) Yeah, everything in the army is pretty much a truck. (I was licensed for a "deuce-and-a-half," but never actually sat behind the wheel of one.) I was even licensed to operate a couple of types of generators. This lead to me being the mess-hall driver, so, when the battery was on a field-problem, I was the guy who would hall troops, food and supplies in my five-ton or gamma-goat out to the field. I even became assistant driver for the "old man" which meant I was the driver for the Top Sergeant and our captain.

Being supply gopher did have its privileges. I'd be in a warm and dry vehicle while others were in the rain or the cold. I'd often get to return to the "rear" while others were stuck in the field. Sometimes, I would get a hot meal straight from the mess that way too. On one occasion while in the rear, I refused to shower, though I had ample opportunity, because I felt that was somehow unfair to the guys stuck in the field. I don't know, but it made sense at the time. I suppose I wanted to show my solidarity with them.

Yes, there were many perks, but you'd sometimes have to be at places at times when others might not have to be. I never minded it, though. I would simply sit in my jeep or truck waiting on whomever I needed to wait on.

I've heard many a story, especially in war-time, how gofers got a way with metaphorical murder because they were sneaky and crooked and used their job for their own gain and/or that of their friends. My experience was never like that. I guess the most that I abused my job was I bragged that I was about the only trooper in the battery who could ask for a three day pass on Thursday morning and have it approved that afternoon.

Funny, but I was also assistant for a lot of jobs. I was assistant driver for Top and the CO, assistant armorer, assistant R&U, ( Repairs & Utilities,) and maybe something else.(I think I might've just been the R&U guy.) I sure did do a lot of assisting. (I think I recall these correctly.)

On any given day, I would be piddling away at some task in the supply room when the supply SP4 would return from a mission for the chief. As often as not, he would return empty-handed, unsuccessful and all too quickly from whatever enterprise he had been assigned. Sgt. Thompson would always fuss & cuss about the specialist's lack of success. Next thing I knew, I heard something I heard on many an occasion.

"I'll just send my private. If I want anything done around here, I've gotta send my private!"

Then, off I'd go to retrieve some much needed machine, machine part, papers or paperwork or to deliver something to someone that needed it delivered to them or to pick up something from someone who needed it picked up from them. It really didn't matter what, it just mattered that it got done. It didn't even seem to matter how long it took. Hey, a twelve-hour day in the Army is a short day, so, I suppose you've got to be busy doing something.

I'd arrive at my destination to do whatever and it would usually turn out to be a waiting game. I always had the good sense to keep a book in my pocket and got a lot of good reading done. (Everything from Milton to Burroughs.) After however much time it took, I'd hear my name or unit or something familiar called out or someone would just, I suppose, get sick of looking at me sitting there. They'd ask what I wanted and fill my order or accept my delivery or do what needed done. Then, I'd be on my way back to my unit. I'd walk through the door and Sgt. Thompson would ask me if I was successful, I'd reply in the affirmative and he'd smile and say those words I actually loved to hear.

"I'll just send my private. If I want anything done around here, I've gotta send my

private!"

Oh, yeah, it was definitely the best job in the Army! I doubt it, but I might've considered re-uping if there had been an MOS for supply gofer. Then, I could've just whiled the hours away sitting on my posterior, reading my books and listening to my supply chief endlessly singing the praises of his private.

　

Private Survival

I was at the motor pool, doing some maintenance on my vehicle. Being a driver, I was required to do some fairly heavy repair on my own vehicles.

I can't remember which one I was working on, but it involved changing a tire. I don't mean just like when you put on a spare, but when you take the tire off the rim and put a new one on it. It was a bit of a strenuous job and I may or may not have been having some difficulties in removing and replacing the old tire.

Before long, I noticed the captain and his XO (Executive Officer) standing, looking over my shoulder, watching me sweat. I didn't pay much attention to them, but mostly went on about my business.

After a few minutes, the captain, (can't recall his name,) began talking, bragging, about how he had been a motor-pool officer earlier in his career. Moreover, he began offering advice on the project set before me. I'm not sure how much attention I was actually paying him, when I found him kneeling on the floor beside me with his hands busy tugging, pulling and pushing on my tire. I moved out of his way. It wasn't very long after that, when the XO, (Lieutenant Dorch, whom we called “LTD,)” had, apparently observing his senior on the floor working, decided he had best join in the fray. Now both of them were on the floor wrestling with my tire. I stood up and stepped back.

It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes with the captain and lieutenant playing mechanic. It was about then when the captain, who had been busy explaining the entire time, looked around to see little old me, Private Davis, standing there, arms crossed, with a big smile on my face, merely as an observer of the entire spectacle.

I suppose it finally dawned on him and he quickly stood up, LTD standing along with him, and, looking at me, said, “Finish this private!” I smiled again saying, “Yes, sir” and returned to the work at hand.

I learned a very valuable lesson about people that day. They like to feel their value and will do a lot of crazy stuff to prove it. Even an Army officer can easily be pulled into a booby-trap by playing to his ego.

Yes, I know it's passive-aggressive. Sometimes, though, it took little stunts like that to survive as a private, (later PFC,) in Uncle Sam's Army. In the end, it's all about survival.

On a further note, I decided long ago that I have little or nothing to prove. Many a time some insecure someone will come along who wants to do the work and run the show. Most every time, if I feel that it will not harm me or mine, I stand back and let them do it, smiling all the while. It's a joke they just can't seem to get.

Calling Cadence

You do a lot of singing in the Army. (Although, I don't remember anyone calling it “singing.”) In the Army, it's called “cadence.” Cadence can be done while running or marching. I don't recall doing it stationary except one time outside of the mess hall when SSG Ligon was trying to teach us some new ones.

Cadence defined, in Army style, means someone leads by calling out a part of a song which is then, in turn, responded to by the squad, platoon, company, etc. It involves a lot of, shall we say, songs, many of which have more or less familiar tunes and lyrics and some of which I've not heard before or after the service.

Now, these cadences are centered around Army life, usually, but they can involve a lot of things. They refer to war, whiskey, women and, even, the civilian world. They can be mocking, facetious, gory, inspiring, hilarious and, often, downright filthy!

I think there's a lot of Southern influence in cadences. Much of the pronunciation and some of the turns of phrases and idioms seems very Southern to me. Considering and inordinate number, even the majority, of military personnel are from the South, that would only make sense.

Strangely enough, a few had more than one version: an “R rated” version or a PG rated one. It seemed to sometimes have a lot to do with the mood of the Drill Sergeant, good, bad or goofy, which version of some cadences he would call.

Some D.I.'s, (Drill Instructor) were better at it than others. It wasn't necessarily based so much on whether or not they had a good singing voice, but it seems the ones with the better voices did a better job.

One D.I. from another platoon was especially good. (I think he and Ligon were the best.) I'd hear him sing and whistle and he had a real talent for both. Once when we were marching, again, who knows where, he was calling cadence I was being, I suppose, especially boisterous in my attempt to sincerely imitate his style. I was having a grand old time when suddenly I found Ligon in my face asking me if I wanted to be a “satellite” around the platoon. I hadn't a clue what he meant, but had the good sense to say, “No, Sergeant Ligon.” He concluded with a stern affirmation that I sound off properly and I did my best to do so leaving all of the “soul” I had been putting into my voice out. Later, upon seeing a formation of troops running down the road and one particularly pathetic trainee running circles around them as they went, I was suddenly very aware of what a “satellite” was and very glad to not have been one.

We were all required to “sound off,” meaning, of course, sing very, very loudly! Screaming and shouting would also suffice. If we failed to make enough noise, it would result in punishment for the guilty and the innocent. Trying to meet expectations would leave most of us so hoarse we could barely speak after a long day of marching and cadence.

Some cadences involved stomping your foot at certain times to accentuate the rhythm or, as one platoon sergeant taught us in Georgia, snap your fingers as you marched. The creativity of some of the D.I.'s, platoon sergeants and general cadence callers would add to the fun or just plain cool factor of the entire event. (Sometimes, lower ranks called cadence, too.)

Once, the entire platoon was punished because of one particular D.I. His accent, not sure where he was from, was so horrible and he chewed his words so terribly that we couldn't tell what he was saying and as we marched along, we sounded off less and less. SSG Ligon, my D.I., was so upset with us that he put us through some intense drills laced with a load of yelling and swearing to bring the lesson home.

Once, while out on bivouac, we were marching from somewhere to somewhere and Sergeant Ligon was calling the “R” rated version of a particular cadence that I normally enjoyed when it was in its more “PG” edition. He had proceeded this specific cadence with some somewhat unruly ones and then, having dived into this, well, obscene cadence that I found virtually impossible to join in with considering every fourth word was, let's say, not found in the Bible. I found myself flabbergasted and unable to find speech for a very lengthy moment.

Now, being the Fourth Platoon, Fourth Squad, Assistant Squad Leader, I was always at the rear of the platoon. Unfortunately for me, Ligon just happened to be very near the back of the platoon calling cadence on this particular day. Finding myself speechless at this unfortuitous moment, Ligon just happened to look at me, the same time I looked at him. I've explained already that not sounding off properly is cause for swift punishment, so I expected to find myself as a satellite around the platoon or worse. Then, the strangest of things happened. Ligon just smiled. Yes, he just looked directly into my eyes, cast a knowing smile my way, turned his head back toward the platoon and continued as if nothing happened.

It took a minute for me to realize I was not in trouble. Then another minute to regain my composure. By this time, Ligon had moved onto a more repeatable cadence and I enthusiastically joined in with the rest of the platoon.

Now, what made him overlook my obvious dereliction of duty and ignore my lack of noise making, well, I can only guess. I had had several small chats with both SSG Ligon and SFC Johnson, my Drill Sergeants, and I also had a bit of a “rep” around the entire platoon. I was not one for obscenity and everyone, including the D.I.'s knew it. So, maybe Ligon ultimately thought that this was great fun to go places he knew I wouldn't and enjoyed seeing me looking like a landed fish gasping for air. Who knows? I'm just glad I didn't get in any trouble that day and that knowledge was enough for Private Davis.

Below, I'll include the lyrics to some of the more memorable cadences we did at my various posts of service. I'll mention whether or not the versions are the “PG” one, but won't even hint at what the alternative might be. Many of the tunes were similar or the same, with just different lyrics and themes.

1. “Up Jumped the Sergeant” PG version
   
   

1. Up jumped the sergeant from the coconut grove.

He was an Airborne Ranger, you could tell by his clothes.

He'd run through the jungle with a knife in his hand,

Killing every Commie bastard that was in the land.

He whipped ninety-eight 'til his fists turned blue.

Then he “knocked out ten” and he whipped (pronounced “whooped”) the other two.

And when he died, he went straight to Hell.

He whipped the devils demons and his brother as well.

And on his tombstone, it clearly reads:

“Here lies the Airborne Infantry!”

Singing Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day!

Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day

2. Up in the mornin' 'for the break of day.

I don't like it. No way!

Eat my breakfast too soon.

My stomach's growlin' before noon./Hungry as Hell, before noon.

Went to the mess sergeant on my knees,

Sayin', “Mess Sergeant, Mess Sergeant, feed me please!”

Mess Sergeant looked at me with a grin.

Said, “If you wanna be Airborne, you gotta be thin.”

Singing Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day!

Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day

2. “Oh, Leanna!”

Oh, Leanna! Oh, Lee-o-Leanna!

Oh, Lee-o-lee-o-lee-o-lee. Oh, Lee-o-lee-anna!

(Various versions of lyrics would follow the chorus)

3. “At Ft. Wood” or “Vietnam” (Chorus sung to the tune of “Poison Ivy)

At Fort Wood. At Fort Wood.

Late at night, when you're a sleepin'

Drill Sergeants come a creepin' around.

1. You see the flash of cannon.
   You see your buddy's blood.
   Oh, what a hell-of-a-way to die!

(Various versions of lyrics would follow the chorus)

“Vietnam” version simply changed up the chorus.

1. Vietnam! Vietnam!
   Late at night, when you're a sleepin',
   Charlie Cong comes a creepin' around!

3. “Amen!”

Amen!

Came to Leonard Wood.

Amen!

To do my body good.

Amen!

And be a soldier!

Amen! Amen! Amen!

Amen!

On graduation day.

Amen!

I hear the people say,

Amen!

That he's a soldier.

Amen! Amen! Amen!

4. “Lifer”

He's a lifer. Pray for him.

Twenty years and he's still in.

Twenty years of shinin' brass.

Twenty years of kissin' ass.

He's a lifer. Pray for him.

Twenty years and he's still in.

Other verses and variations included:

Sergeant (fill-in-the-blank) is turnin' green.

Someone pissed in his canteen.

5. “Jody”

Ain't no sense in lookin' back.

Jody's got your Cadillac.

Ain't no sense in lookin' down.

Ain't no discharge on the ground.

Ain't no sense in going home.

Jody's got your girl and gone.

(Many other verses and variations ad nauseum.)

6. “You Had a Good Home”

You had a good home when you left!

You're right!

Your mother was there when you left!

You're right!

Your father was there when you left!

You're right!

Your girlfriend was there when you left!

You're right!

You were a fool when you left!

You're right!

You were a fool when you left!

You're right!

The D.I. would call the different phrases and the trainees would respond with “You're right!”

(This was accentuated by stomping the left foot on the beat when the word “left” was said. One female D.I. would especially emphasize the word “fool” when calling this particular cadence.)

There were so many and so many more I, regrettably, can't recall. I wish I had written them down earlier. Still, it's funny looking back over the silly things we said and did that the Army, in its great wisdom and centuries of experience, used to support cohesiveness, camaraderie and esperit de corps. They actually knew what they were doing.

Army Language Test

One of the interesting things that happened to me while in the service, like many others, occurred while I was still at the Reception Center at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. The Reception Center, incidentally, was where they put you before you actually go to Basic Training. It involved a haircut, (which they actually charged me for,) uniform issue, hygiene lessons, learning how to walk in formation and a lot of shots. Did I mention, a lot of shots?

So, it came to pass, one day, that they had us standing in formation, after a not too long march, outside of what I would describe as WW II style barracks. (A lot of buildings had that appearance. ) I can still picture the trees and the structures themselves very vividly. We weren't there long before myself and several others were told to “fall out” of formation and report to one of the buildings directly before us. (I remember Shelby, who became our platoon leader later, being one of the recruits.)

We entered the building, which had at some time in the distant past, been converted into a class room of sorts. There were desks, like high school, and what appeared to be a teacher's desk at the front. I believe there may have even been a large chalk board behind the “teacher's desk.”

It wasn't long before, I think, an NCO appeared at the front of the room and began explaining to us why we had been singled out from the rest of the platoon. I wasn't quite sure if I was in trouble at this point, but I was terribly curious.

As he explained, we had been brought there because we all had done exceptionally well on our ASVAB, (Army Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) test. I felt special! We were now going to take another test. Oh, boy! This test, as it was explained further, was required before being able to attend a military language crash-course that Special Forces candidates were required to attend if they didn't already speak a second language. (Yes, Green Berets are required to be able to communicate in a second language.) He continued that we would spend the next couple of hours learning a mock language, that we would then be tested on and, if receiving a pass, we would be allowed to move to a special forces M.O.S. (Mode of Service.) Yipee! He also explained the scoring process, which was something to the effect of a required 116 out of a possible 150 or 160. Anyway, it seemed weird.

So, the test soon commenced and we studied made up words and made up grammar and made up sentences. It was not uninteresting or unchallenging. I suppose it took at least two hours and my brain felt a little fried when the entire process was over.

They then took up our tests, promising us an answer post haste. We all waited with curiosity and bated breath.

When I received my results, I couldn't help but laugh. I had achieved the absolute minimal score required to pass. Still, I passed. (I remember Shelby passed too.)

It was all a very fascinating experience and gave our small crew something to chat about and, perhaps,even, a small amount of more or less merited pride. Being singled out, as we were, not to mention actually passing.

Still, I thought it was funny in other respects. I was pretty sure SFC Johnson, my recruiter, had told me that I had done well enough on my ASVAB to do any job I wanted as long as it didn't include the Airborne. It seems flat feet and jumping out of planes don't mix. The Army obviously had my medical records, so they knew about my little deformity. So, I did find that entire scenario mysterious due to those little facts. But, hey, as I was too learn, there is sense and there is Army sense.

All in all, it was fun and curious, but it was to no avail. Airborne? Special Forces? Rangers? Green Berets? Not me! I've always heard there were two things that fall out of the sky: Fools and bird shit! I had already decided I was neither.