Jerry Boykin & Lynn Vincent by Never Surrender Page A
Authors: Never Surrender
Tags: BIO000000
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the cadre called us over one at a time to give us our first formal grade in Ranger school.
“Ranger Boykin,” said the RI who had observed my incompetence, “I have given you a failing grade for your patrol last night.” He then proceeded to explain what I had done wrong, which was basically everything.
When he was finished, I slunk away, now not only ashamed, but worried about passing the school. Under an overcast sky, I trudged back to my position on the perimeter and sat on the ground near a cedar tree. Rummaging in my rucksack, I came up with a can of beans and weenies. Even as hungry as I was, the food seemed to go down my throat in large, mealy lumps that tasted like failure.
Since Infantry Officer’s Basic, I had begun trying to deepen my faith. On patrol, when we rested and I could keep my eyes open, I often pulled out a little New Testament I kept in a plastic bag, and read a few verses. But now, very silently, I began to pray, asking God to help me get through the course.
Up until that point, I trusted God mainly with my spiritual well-being, the security of my eternal soul—“fire insurance,” as the old joke goes. For everything else, I now realized, I had been depending on myself, on my own mental abilities, my athleticism, my determination. But when I failed that patrol, I suddenly understood I had been relying too much on myself and not enough on God. For me, that was the beginning of a life lived relying on God moment by moment.
I began Ranger school a colossal failure. I ended it as an honor graduate.
2
ON JUNE 5, 1971, Lynne and I left Fort Benning with a three-year-old, a brand-new baby, Randy, and a U-Haul trailer stuffed with everything we owned. We drove as far as Meridian, Mississippi, spent the night, then got up the next day and drove to Fort Hood, a huge post sprawling over 340 chalky square miles slap in the middle of Texas hill country. My orders there fulfilled a requirement that I have at least four months’ experience in an infantry unit before shipping out for combat. But those 120 days spent leading a forty-man platoon ticked by slowly. The entire time, I felt like a racehorse at the starting gate.
Late September came, and the orders to Vietnam that Captain Major promised me had still not materialized. Nor did they arrive in October or November. Now I was really getting restless. Christmastime came and I took Lynne and the kids home to New Bern on leave. While I was home, I planned to travel up to Army Personnel in Washington, D.C., track down the infantry assignments officer, and tell him about the deal for orders I’d made with Captain Major. To my Southern way of thinking, there was nothing like a friendly personal visit to establish rapport and knock off any mud that might be slowing down the wheels of progress.
On January 3, the first business day of the new year, a Trailways bus carried me from North Carolina to the Capitol. I called ahead to tell the personnel office that I’d like to have a meeting to discuss my next assignment. When I arrived, a very nice secretary greeted me and pulled out my file.
“Okay,” she said brightly. “Major Major will see you now.”
I nearly fell over. Major
Major
? I couldn’t believe it. My good-ol’boy, personal visit plan suddenly went up in smoke. Stomach churning, I walked in to the major’s office.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Boykin?” Major Major said, after I sat down across the desk from him.
I reintroduced myself. Then, treading carefully, I reminded the major that he had, almost exactly a year before, told me that I would have orders to Vietnam four months after my arrival at Fort Hood. Without saying so outright, I made it clear I thought maybe he had forgotten.
Maybe I made it too clear, because the longer I talked, the more disdain collected on Major Major’s face. “Lieutenant Boykin, you serve the needs of the Army,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “Vietnam is winding down and we do
“Ranger Boykin,” said the RI who had observed my incompetence, “I have given you a failing grade for your patrol last night.” He then proceeded to explain what I had done wrong, which was basically everything.
When he was finished, I slunk away, now not only ashamed, but worried about passing the school. Under an overcast sky, I trudged back to my position on the perimeter and sat on the ground near a cedar tree. Rummaging in my rucksack, I came up with a can of beans and weenies. Even as hungry as I was, the food seemed to go down my throat in large, mealy lumps that tasted like failure.
Since Infantry Officer’s Basic, I had begun trying to deepen my faith. On patrol, when we rested and I could keep my eyes open, I often pulled out a little New Testament I kept in a plastic bag, and read a few verses. But now, very silently, I began to pray, asking God to help me get through the course.
Up until that point, I trusted God mainly with my spiritual well-being, the security of my eternal soul—“fire insurance,” as the old joke goes. For everything else, I now realized, I had been depending on myself, on my own mental abilities, my athleticism, my determination. But when I failed that patrol, I suddenly understood I had been relying too much on myself and not enough on God. For me, that was the beginning of a life lived relying on God moment by moment.
I began Ranger school a colossal failure. I ended it as an honor graduate.
2
ON JUNE 5, 1971, Lynne and I left Fort Benning with a three-year-old, a brand-new baby, Randy, and a U-Haul trailer stuffed with everything we owned. We drove as far as Meridian, Mississippi, spent the night, then got up the next day and drove to Fort Hood, a huge post sprawling over 340 chalky square miles slap in the middle of Texas hill country. My orders there fulfilled a requirement that I have at least four months’ experience in an infantry unit before shipping out for combat. But those 120 days spent leading a forty-man platoon ticked by slowly. The entire time, I felt like a racehorse at the starting gate.
Late September came, and the orders to Vietnam that Captain Major promised me had still not materialized. Nor did they arrive in October or November. Now I was really getting restless. Christmastime came and I took Lynne and the kids home to New Bern on leave. While I was home, I planned to travel up to Army Personnel in Washington, D.C., track down the infantry assignments officer, and tell him about the deal for orders I’d made with Captain Major. To my Southern way of thinking, there was nothing like a friendly personal visit to establish rapport and knock off any mud that might be slowing down the wheels of progress.
On January 3, the first business day of the new year, a Trailways bus carried me from North Carolina to the Capitol. I called ahead to tell the personnel office that I’d like to have a meeting to discuss my next assignment. When I arrived, a very nice secretary greeted me and pulled out my file.
“Okay,” she said brightly. “Major Major will see you now.”
I nearly fell over. Major
Major
? I couldn’t believe it. My good-ol’boy, personal visit plan suddenly went up in smoke. Stomach churning, I walked in to the major’s office.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Boykin?” Major Major said, after I sat down across the desk from him.
I reintroduced myself. Then, treading carefully, I reminded the major that he had, almost exactly a year before, told me that I would have orders to Vietnam four months after my arrival at Fort Hood. Without saying so outright, I made it clear I thought maybe he had forgotten.
Maybe I made it too clear, because the longer I talked, the more disdain collected on Major Major’s face. “Lieutenant Boykin, you serve the needs of the Army,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “Vietnam is winding down and we do
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