“War!”
I repeated it, “Waarrrr!!”
The day after that announcement the battalion left for a planned cavalry exercise with the armored personnel carriers (APCs) assigned to the battalion. It was great fun racing across Kansas prairies kicking up a rooster tail of dust. Peterson peered out of the turrets of an APC on my left, and Ernst and Duckett were on my right. We were all yelling “Yahoo!” as the tracks took dips and then bounded over the tops of rises. Vietnam in an APC wasn’t a bad proposition, I thought. On our return to garrison, however, the APCs were turned in. We were going to Vietnam as “straight leg” infantry, not as a mechanized infantry battalion.
Robert M. Dunn from Portland, Oregon, and George McCoy from Munster, Indiana, other platoon leaders in the battalion, teamed with Pete and me on our nights out in Junction City and at the various officers clubs on base. McCoy was quiet but funny. He was a good listener and, true to his midwestern roots, a man of his word, the type of person you wanted at your side in combat.
Dunn was also good to have around. His loud laugh could burst streetlights. He had a quick wit, but he was also quick to fight. His father had played pro football for the Green Bay Packers, so Dunn probably came by his physical nature honestly. Orphaned when he was thirteen years old, he went to live with an older brother who was also a minor. That arrangement actually worked out pretty well and gave Dunn a certain freedom in growing up that most other kids his age envied. While he was in the tenth grade, however, he ran afoul of the law for selling false IDs. That led the social service people to place him with an older married sister, who insisted on more responsible behavior, and he eventually graduated Seattle University ROTC. Because of his loud wit and the fact that he did not bluff, nothing was calm when he was on the scene. Though he probably would never hit one of his men, if a fellow officer irritated him he’d hit the officer flush in the nose. He’d do it without a second’s thought, and that came across in his manner. We didn’t mess with Dunn.
One night in a remote club, I went outside to pee and then staggered across the Kansas plains, more to keep my balance than to see the countryside. I ended up at a stable. When I turned around I could see the officers club behind me in the distance. Several horses were in their stalls. No one was around, so I got a saddle and bridle from the tack room and had opened the door to the first stall when a strong right arm landed on my shoulder. A friendly, mustached sergeant told me not to mess with Chief, he was the Army’s last cavalry horse, a local institution. “Ah, Chief,” I said, having no idea that this was the most famous horse in the Army.
“Chief,” the sergeant repeated. “I’ll take you back to the O club.”
In the club parking lot, Dunn was pushing someone around in the middle of a ring of young officers. I broke through the crowd and tried to separate the two. One of them hit me square upside the head, and I fell to my knees. Dunn and the other man continued slugging each other above me. One of their blows came down on my crown like a club, and I fell forward, face-down in the parking lot.
McCoy helped me to his car. When Peterson and Dunn joinedus, Dunn looked none the worse for wear. I told him that sometimes it sure hurt having fun with our crowd.
More staff and equipment arrived every day. Our platoon received two very heavy antitank guns, which we assumed would be turned in with the APCs. Incredibly, we learned that we would take them to Vietnam, although we hadn’t heard much about Viet Cong tanks. Bratcher said that if we were taking the guns to Vietnam, they would be good for something. You’ve got to believe in the Army, he said, plus something about those heavy guns made him think they were going to be valuable.
Dunn left for Oregon to marry Linda Lowe, the daughter of a dentist. On
I repeated it, “Waarrrr!!”
The day after that announcement the battalion left for a planned cavalry exercise with the armored personnel carriers (APCs) assigned to the battalion. It was great fun racing across Kansas prairies kicking up a rooster tail of dust. Peterson peered out of the turrets of an APC on my left, and Ernst and Duckett were on my right. We were all yelling “Yahoo!” as the tracks took dips and then bounded over the tops of rises. Vietnam in an APC wasn’t a bad proposition, I thought. On our return to garrison, however, the APCs were turned in. We were going to Vietnam as “straight leg” infantry, not as a mechanized infantry battalion.
Robert M. Dunn from Portland, Oregon, and George McCoy from Munster, Indiana, other platoon leaders in the battalion, teamed with Pete and me on our nights out in Junction City and at the various officers clubs on base. McCoy was quiet but funny. He was a good listener and, true to his midwestern roots, a man of his word, the type of person you wanted at your side in combat.
Dunn was also good to have around. His loud laugh could burst streetlights. He had a quick wit, but he was also quick to fight. His father had played pro football for the Green Bay Packers, so Dunn probably came by his physical nature honestly. Orphaned when he was thirteen years old, he went to live with an older brother who was also a minor. That arrangement actually worked out pretty well and gave Dunn a certain freedom in growing up that most other kids his age envied. While he was in the tenth grade, however, he ran afoul of the law for selling false IDs. That led the social service people to place him with an older married sister, who insisted on more responsible behavior, and he eventually graduated Seattle University ROTC. Because of his loud wit and the fact that he did not bluff, nothing was calm when he was on the scene. Though he probably would never hit one of his men, if a fellow officer irritated him he’d hit the officer flush in the nose. He’d do it without a second’s thought, and that came across in his manner. We didn’t mess with Dunn.
One night in a remote club, I went outside to pee and then staggered across the Kansas plains, more to keep my balance than to see the countryside. I ended up at a stable. When I turned around I could see the officers club behind me in the distance. Several horses were in their stalls. No one was around, so I got a saddle and bridle from the tack room and had opened the door to the first stall when a strong right arm landed on my shoulder. A friendly, mustached sergeant told me not to mess with Chief, he was the Army’s last cavalry horse, a local institution. “Ah, Chief,” I said, having no idea that this was the most famous horse in the Army.
“Chief,” the sergeant repeated. “I’ll take you back to the O club.”
In the club parking lot, Dunn was pushing someone around in the middle of a ring of young officers. I broke through the crowd and tried to separate the two. One of them hit me square upside the head, and I fell to my knees. Dunn and the other man continued slugging each other above me. One of their blows came down on my crown like a club, and I fell forward, face-down in the parking lot.
McCoy helped me to his car. When Peterson and Dunn joinedus, Dunn looked none the worse for wear. I told him that sometimes it sure hurt having fun with our crowd.
More staff and equipment arrived every day. Our platoon received two very heavy antitank guns, which we assumed would be turned in with the APCs. Incredibly, we learned that we would take them to Vietnam, although we hadn’t heard much about Viet Cong tanks. Bratcher said that if we were taking the guns to Vietnam, they would be good for something. You’ve got to believe in the Army, he said, plus something about those heavy guns made him think they were going to be valuable.
Dunn left for Oregon to marry Linda Lowe, the daughter of a dentist. On
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