“From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines” Walt Whitman
Chapter 2 - Out of the Army
The last days provide a mix of emotions. All of us made the rounds to
our friend’s apartments for dinners and farewell parties. You will never
in your life live and work with such a diverse group of people as is
found in the military during wartime when a draft has been in place. I
met and became friends with some great people during the last year and a
half; we had an appreciation for what we all had endured, as well as the
camaraderie that comes from serving together. The bad faded away as we
hugged and shook hands with those we would soon be leaving. Some would
re-enlist, but most would not; they looked at us enviously; not only for
the fact that were we getting out, but that the three of us were
embarking on this last adventure together unbound by the constraints of
the military. Ten-four and out, far out.
On my last Saturday in the Army, I took the Honda for an afternoon ride
down to Raeford, a small town south of the post. Raeford had a couple of
places to grab a beer and meet some local college girls, and have a
decent meal as well. Unlike Spring Lake and Fayetteville, Raeford was a
quiet place primarily devoid of the usual trappings of towns near large
Army posts, such as pawn shops, surplus stores, and bars where people
seemed to get hurt quite often. It is not on a major thoroughfare
through the post, rather it is on the 401 south of the Fort, and the
direct way to it through the post is a long barren run through the pines
and sand hills past target ranges, training areas and the like. There
wasn’t much activity on this warm and sunny Saturday in October as I
cruised through the Fort and down the road past empty training grounds,
occasionally passing a Jeep or small group of soldiers on the road.
I stopped at a few places but recognized no one. After nursing a beer I
headed back up through the Fort. I pulled off the road by a deserted
target range to relieve myself, and I climbed to the top of the
bleachers there and sat down. I felt overwhelmed, in some ways, and the
memories of the past year and a half were vivid in my mind.
Some memories were sweet. Once a month my company would repair to a
large grass parade ground to practice marching, and once a quarter the
entire battalion would assemble to practice the art of marching,
assembling in large formations, and passing in review. In the Army you
stand in formation, as well as march in parades and reviews, with the
tallest soldiers out in front; this presents the best possible
appearance to any reviewing officers. This means that, because I was
short, I spent a good portion of Army time standing in the rear and
looking at the back of the neck of the person in front of me.
I remembered one such company gathering at the large parade grounds. I
could see other units in the distance doing pretty much the same drill
as us. With the company commander and a few exec’s milling around, the
real power in the company, the First Sergeant (or ‘Top’ as we called
him), was putting us through our paces. He was a believer that all
non-commissioned officers, E-5 and above, should be able to lead the
company in its marching drills by calling cadence and leading, that is
marching alone as the leader off to the side. On this particular day, he
chose me to lead a platoon in marching drill. Soldiers like me primarily
made up the platoon, Army miscreants and Vietnam veterans, people just
marking time until they got out. One or two low ranking soldiers rounded
out the group as we stood there in our work fatigues on the parade field
in the sun. “Aw, come on, Top”, I said. “Not today. I don’t do anything
but stand in the back, you know that.” My protestations fell on deaf
ears, however, as Top told me to take them around the area, practice
making some turns, call cadence loudly, and return after awhile. In
short order I was standing in front of the group.
“Ten Hut,” I commanded. The group went to attention. “Right Face!
Forward, harch! Hut, two, three, four, hut, two, three, four,” came my
simple cadence. We were marching now, with a few of my friends giving me
business from the ranks, as we were now far enough away that Top could
no longer hear. And march we did, farther, and farther away, straight
across the parade grounds, through the other units, eventually to
disappear in the far woods where we all fell about the place laughing
uproariously.
“Smoke em if you got em,” I said.
“Man, you are really going to get it this time,” a soldier said.
“You’re probably right,” I answered. Looking back across the expanse of
the parade field you could now see the distant image of Top heading
straight for us in a determined manner.
“This is gonna be good,” said a friend, with Top getting closer. “I
can’t wait to see this.”
It was good, and I got it. I did extra duty, weekend duty, and to top it
off, I had the pleasure of going on a weeklong training exercise with
the 82nd Airborne up in the mountains. But I did not have to march the group
anymore.
I remembered a couple of other events from my time here. I had turned
twenty-one years old at Fort Bragg, I was my own man and could sign my
own contracts. That wasn’t a bad feeling after serving in a war for a
year,
And then there was Captain Jeffrey MacDonald. He was the Green Beret
under scrutiny for killing his family in a Charles Manson-type blood
orgy. That happened before I got here, but the investigation of it grew
in intensity while I was here.
I climbed down from the bleachers and fired up the Honda; in a moment I
was on my way home.
During my military service, I had served in, or visited in a military
capacity, New Jersey, Maryland, California, Guam, the Philippines,
Vietnam, Hawaii, Thailand, Japan, Alaska, Massachusetts, Iowa, Georgia,
and North Carolina. This line of military experience would end with my
ETS at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, on October 8, 1971. ETS is short for
estimated time of separation, and it appears on your military ID card
from your first day onward. It is called ‘estimated’ because it can
change, either by re-enlisting or by being extended by bad time, that is
any extra punishment time given to you for courts-martial or time being
absent without leave.
On October 8 the three of us drove to the Fort together in Gerry’s VW
for our last morning formation. As the company stood in ranks, Top told
the three of us he wished us well out there in the civilian world. He
said we weren’t the best soldiers, but we had served overseas and done
our duty, and today, that was enough. When Top dismissed the
company from formation, we shook hands with Top and everyone else, and
said our goodbyes in the battalion area. I looked around at the old
World War II barracks that were still in use around us, for a year and a
half I had been a part of this and now it was finally going to be over.
We drove over to post headquarters where a large building served as the final processing center. There was about forty of us in the group. We went from station to station as we signed various forms and individually reviewed records with clerks at desks for completeness and accuracy. The last station is the pay station. For the last time you perform the ritual: salute, say your name and rank, and state that you are reporting for pay. You’ve already reviewed the amount at an earlier station so there are no surprises. A payroll clerk counts out the money, but this time you turn in your military ID card. You are still under the Uniformed Code of Military Justice until midnight, so there was nothing to gain by going back and punching someone out who had done you wrong. We walked out to the car, smiling in the sunshine, but we were all silent. We looked around at the others in the group; some were being picked up by wives, families, and friends. We were alone but for each other. We got in and made our way out of the headquarters area; we soon gained the main road and, for the last time in uniform, drove past the large ‘Welcome to Fort Bragg, Home of the 82nd Airborne” sign that stood at the boundary of the Fort. It was over.