Latino said, “Can I get dressed before you start talking, siirrr?”
It wasn’t starting out the way I had in mind, but Manuel, the fat guy, eventually turned off the radios, the Latino got dressed, the snorer got to his feet, and the man with the broom put it down and finished his cigarette. I asked them something about themselves. Each had a reason for not being sent to the 2d Brigade. Some were finishing their enlistments and leaving service within a month or so, others were awaiting court-martial, some were sick and lame, or claimed to be. Manuel was fat.
I had a speech ready, so I let it go, but it was lost on this audience, except for Manuel. I ended by saying, “No one skates anymore in this platoon, even if you have only a week left in the army. Until you receive your orders, you belong to me.” As I turned to leave, someone turned on a radio.
I told Pete that my group couldn’t fight a cold.
THREE
Marshaling for War
Troops from U.S. Army units in Germany and Korea arrived at Fort Riley. The misfits in my platoon and throughout the battalion were sent to a holding company at the hospital. Sgt. Cecil W. Bratcher arrived and was assigned to my platoon as 1st Squad leader. Slightly stoop shouldered, he had a facial tic that tensed the muscles in his neck and jerked his jaw to the right. He reminded me of Cottonpicker, however, when he walked up closer to me than necessary, saluted, smiled, and introduced himself. Within days I had Woolley transfer my original, timid platoon sergeant to company headquarters so that Bratcher could take over the job.
One morning after a load of new replacements arrived, Woolley called me to his office.
“Got a new rifleman here that I’m going to assign to your platoon, but, ah, he, ah, he’s, I’m not sure how long he’s going to be around.” Woolley continued to look down at a paper on his desk as he talked. Not yet completely comfortable around the company commander, I stood awkwardly in front of his desk.
“He’s scheduled for a dishonorable discharge. Just got out of the brig for shooting a man—apparently he was dorking this man’s wife and got caught. He’s an ex–M.P. Sergeant E-5 before his court-martial. He’s here, best I can tell, because of some administrative mistake—all the bodies being moved around, he got out of a line to get kicked out of the service into a line of replacements for the 1st Division. His name is Private Wiler Beck. Keep an eye on him until we decide what to do with him.”
I called Beck off to the side shortly after Woolley assigned him to my platoon to tell him that he probably would not be around long, that as far as I knew his dishonorable discharge wasstill being processed. A big, burly man in his mid-twenties, he stood as tall as he could and with a stoic, implacable look on his face, said, “Sir, I bribed my way here from the holding company at Fort Leavenworth. I don’t want a DD. I want to go to Vietnam with the 1st Division. I won’t let you down.”
Beck was, in fact, a very good soldier, though he was assertive by nature and tended to be the first and the loudest with an opinion—a private with a sergeant’s attitude. He carried an M-79 grenade launcher like a war club.
A month after I arrived the battalion was at full strength. President Johnson gave another televised talk beginning with “My fellow Americans.” Pete and I were at our favorite bar in Junction City that night and didn’t hear the broadcast live. When we got back to the BOQ around midnight, people gathered in the dayroom were talking excitingly.
“We’re going to Vietnam,” someone told us as we walked in. He was excited to be telling someone who didn’t know.
“Who?” I asked.
“The whole damn 1st Infantry Division. President Johnson just said so. We’re going to join the 1st Cav. We going to war, boy.” With his close-cut hair and flushed face, the young officer looked a little zingy. Pete looked at me and said, smiling,
It wasn’t starting out the way I had in mind, but Manuel, the fat guy, eventually turned off the radios, the Latino got dressed, the snorer got to his feet, and the man with the broom put it down and finished his cigarette. I asked them something about themselves. Each had a reason for not being sent to the 2d Brigade. Some were finishing their enlistments and leaving service within a month or so, others were awaiting court-martial, some were sick and lame, or claimed to be. Manuel was fat.
I had a speech ready, so I let it go, but it was lost on this audience, except for Manuel. I ended by saying, “No one skates anymore in this platoon, even if you have only a week left in the army. Until you receive your orders, you belong to me.” As I turned to leave, someone turned on a radio.
I told Pete that my group couldn’t fight a cold.
THREE
Marshaling for War
Troops from U.S. Army units in Germany and Korea arrived at Fort Riley. The misfits in my platoon and throughout the battalion were sent to a holding company at the hospital. Sgt. Cecil W. Bratcher arrived and was assigned to my platoon as 1st Squad leader. Slightly stoop shouldered, he had a facial tic that tensed the muscles in his neck and jerked his jaw to the right. He reminded me of Cottonpicker, however, when he walked up closer to me than necessary, saluted, smiled, and introduced himself. Within days I had Woolley transfer my original, timid platoon sergeant to company headquarters so that Bratcher could take over the job.
One morning after a load of new replacements arrived, Woolley called me to his office.
“Got a new rifleman here that I’m going to assign to your platoon, but, ah, he, ah, he’s, I’m not sure how long he’s going to be around.” Woolley continued to look down at a paper on his desk as he talked. Not yet completely comfortable around the company commander, I stood awkwardly in front of his desk.
“He’s scheduled for a dishonorable discharge. Just got out of the brig for shooting a man—apparently he was dorking this man’s wife and got caught. He’s an ex–M.P. Sergeant E-5 before his court-martial. He’s here, best I can tell, because of some administrative mistake—all the bodies being moved around, he got out of a line to get kicked out of the service into a line of replacements for the 1st Division. His name is Private Wiler Beck. Keep an eye on him until we decide what to do with him.”
I called Beck off to the side shortly after Woolley assigned him to my platoon to tell him that he probably would not be around long, that as far as I knew his dishonorable discharge wasstill being processed. A big, burly man in his mid-twenties, he stood as tall as he could and with a stoic, implacable look on his face, said, “Sir, I bribed my way here from the holding company at Fort Leavenworth. I don’t want a DD. I want to go to Vietnam with the 1st Division. I won’t let you down.”
Beck was, in fact, a very good soldier, though he was assertive by nature and tended to be the first and the loudest with an opinion—a private with a sergeant’s attitude. He carried an M-79 grenade launcher like a war club.
A month after I arrived the battalion was at full strength. President Johnson gave another televised talk beginning with “My fellow Americans.” Pete and I were at our favorite bar in Junction City that night and didn’t hear the broadcast live. When we got back to the BOQ around midnight, people gathered in the dayroom were talking excitingly.
“We’re going to Vietnam,” someone told us as we walked in. He was excited to be telling someone who didn’t know.
“Who?” I asked.
“The whole damn 1st Infantry Division. President Johnson just said so. We’re going to join the 1st Cav. We going to war, boy.” With his close-cut hair and flushed face, the young officer looked a little zingy. Pete looked at me and said, smiling,
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