Relative Humility

Advanced Infantry Training
I had lost all hope of receiving any specialized training other than advanced infantry. It was an improvement to live in barracks instead of tents, but the training was steeped in tedious repetition. The course began with instruction on light and heavy machine guns as spring arrived and the days warmed. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that taking a drink of water was going to be a major harassment exercise as the days became hotter. “Okay, men, we will now drink by the numbers. REDUP—ONE.” Redup was a distortion of the word “ready.” It was common practice for certain key words in commands to be changed that way. Another example was the changing of the word “attention” to “TEN-HUT.” These bastardizations are central to the military mentality, and anyone giving commands with the civilian vernacular would not only be judged unfit for command, his virility would also be impugned. Anyway, we would take out our canteens on that first command. Then, “REDUP—TWO.” We would unscrew the canteen cap. “REDUP—THREE.” The canteen would be placed to the lips without any passage of water to the mouth. “REDUP—SIP.”
    “TEN-HUT, goddamn it, I didn’t say drink, did I? I said sip!” All this caused me to dread hotter weather. Even so, I knew these drills were crucial to “becoming a good soldier.” Yeah, right!

Plumb Berserk
I only spent two weeks in advanced infantry training. I’ll never forget how events unfolded the day I received new orders.
Every Saturday morning we stood inspection. The barracks were spotless with beds made perfectly. Our footlockers were opened and their contents displayed in uniform order. While we were preparing for one of these inspections, I was called to the office to see the first sergeant. He said I was through training with men and to pack my gear and report to a new company where I would learn to “run a typewriter.” He presented me with my written orders and said I should turn in my rifle and leave.
    I went back to the barracks where everyone was busy getting ready for the inspection. I quietly started to do my part. Then I jumped on my bed and screamed, “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANY MORE.” I bounced from my bed to the next and then to the next ranting as I sailed along. Then I dropped to the floor and “swam” under several cots yelling, “I JUST GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE.” The guys really thought I had gone off the deep end, and were all the more convinced when I began to stuff my clothes in my duffle bag.
    When I went to “turn in” my rifle (which was locked-up with all the others) the quartermaster wouldn’t clear my record until I cleaned it again. Each time I cleaned it his inspection found something wrong. I began to realize that no matter what I did he was going to harass me for the rest of the day. I started reading instead of cleaning the rifle. Periodically I would take it back for another rejection. We played the game until late afternoon, but no matter, I was happy in the knowledge that I would be entering another world by day’s end.

A New Perspective
    Even now I can sense the elation I felt when I moved from advanced infantry training to clerk/typist training. We drilled a lot on the typewriter and became familiar with a variety of forms. My speed increased from 30 to 60 words per minute. There was such a sameness to the routine that I have little recollection of the other class work. We still had some field work, but the harassment factor was less intense than it was in advanced infantry training—probably because blind obedience was considered imperative to survival on the firing line, and harassment was a way of honing that discipline.
    I was once again living in a wall tent, but with a door instead of a flap. The spring weather was usually pleasant, so we could roll up the tent sides and enjoy the fresh air and natural light. Fortunately we had permanent mosquito netting on the tent sides.

No Time for Sergeants
The small group of men in each training company who gave supervision to trainees were called cadre. They were permanently assigned, but a new batch of trainees were assigned every eight weeks. Consequently, the cadre was probably more bored than we were. Most of them were not well educated and we frequently referred to them as “dumber than a box of rocks.” Most spewed out cliches with every order. For example, if we were to “police-up” an area (i.e., pick up trash) the order would be subtended by the admonishment, “I want to see nothing but elbows, boot soles, and assholes.” Another favorite was, “If you don’t do it right, your ass is grass and I’m a lawn mower.” Our sergeant, I’ll call him Bozo, was a southern black who had a drawl that was difficult to understand. Each morning when we stood muster he would remind us, “Sol-jahs, when you-awl leaves for yo classes, don’t fah-gets to sweep da flo-ah and close da do-ah.” One morning I smiled when he said that. He demanded, “What chew grinnin’ ‘bout?” I said, “I was just thinking what Edgar Allan Po-ah might say about sweepin’ da flo-ah and closin’ da do-ah.”
    “And wha’ might that be?,” Bozo queried.
    I said, “Never mo-ah.”
    A few guys snickered, but not many knew what I was talking about any more than Bozo did. I don’t remember what happened as a result, but I’m certain I paid a price. It was worth it.