weekends Pete and I raced each other north to his home in Lincoln, Nebraska. He pushed his Alfa Romeo faster than I wanted to drive my Mercedes, and he’d often go out of sight in front to wait for me, sitting high on top of a ridge ready to race down and pass me again.
Back at Fort Riley, training intensified. I was pleased to see that most of my men were good marksmen, whether they came from the city or the country. A fair shot myself, I challenged the high scorer from the platoon for a shoot-off at the end of rifle practice. Sometimes I won, but usually the marksman of the day beat me.
We also marched across the Kansas prairies on field exercises. As we walked along I had a chance to talk with the men in the platoon. Sergeant Bratcher’s father in Tennessee had a business fixing jukeboxes, a business he planned to join when he retired from the Army. Jo Ann, his wife, had recently broken both her arms, but was moving the family from their last post back to Tennessee.
“She’s a good woman,” he said. “Good soldiers have good wives. I see it all the time.”
The majority of the NCOs in my platoon were black. On average the riflemen were eighteen years old. Most had bad teeth, many had tattoos, and few had graduated high school.
Sgt. Miguel Castro-Carrosquillo from Puerto Rico was one of the platoon clowns. PFC Gilbert P. Spencer was a tall black man from an urban ghetto who led the “Angry Negro Coalition.” Pvt. Antonio De Leon, a college graduate, had been sitting out a year to make money for graduate school when he was drafted. PFC J. V. Patrick was a lanky Texan who had gone through aseries of civilian jobs before joining the Army. Sgt. Roosevelt S. Rome was a burly squad leader who rarely spoke. Pvt. Harold G. Ayers was a large, barely literate eighteen year old from the Midwest. Sgt. Ray E. King was a redheaded noncom who led the 3d Squad. Pvt. Warren J. Manuel, who carried a machine gun, had been in the platoon longer than anyone. He was the fat guy who was in the platoon when I arrived. PFC James E. Newsome carried my PRC-25 radio. Pvt. John J. (Jack) Lyons Jr. from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, was a draftee, Pvt. Beck’s best friend. Together, Lyons and Beck formed an alliance that was seldom challenged in the platoon.
Most of the men had personal situations to settle prior to departure, and most requested leave to go home, except Ayers. Pay allotments had to be taken out, wives and families settled, cars sold, and personal equipment sent home or thrown away.
We received movement orders in mid-August. Our battalion was going by train to the west coast and by ship across the Pacific. Departure was tentatively set a month away, mid-September. Training activities increased. Lt. Col. Robert Haldane, a West Point graduate, was battalion commander. He had an intelligent, educated manner, spoke in a low, resonant voice, and had that intangible quality usually referred to as “presence.” By reputation, he was the finest battalion commander in the 1st Division. With his sidekick, Sergeant Major Bainbridge, he often led the entire battalion on PT runs in the morning.
Men continued to arrive, and most of them immediately went on leave to take care of personal business. Once a day, it seemed, I was called to the orderly room for a telephone call to exclaim, “You have to do what?” or “You’re where?” It was hard to believe some of the twisted situations in which the men—boys mostly—of my platoon had found themselves. Some returned from leave with broken noses, or drunk or broke, in taxis, on buses, thumbing, with pregnant girlfriends or dogs, with chest colds or venereal disease.
“Is there something about going to Vietnam that makes people crazy?” I asked Bratcher.
“Yep,” he said, “there is some of that, but most of these guys are crazy anyway.” Bratcher smiled, and the muscles in his neck tightened and his head jerked to the right.
The platoon was unanimous in its disapproval of war
Back at Fort Riley, training intensified. I was pleased to see that most of my men were good marksmen, whether they came from the city or the country. A fair shot myself, I challenged the high scorer from the platoon for a shoot-off at the end of rifle practice. Sometimes I won, but usually the marksman of the day beat me.
We also marched across the Kansas prairies on field exercises. As we walked along I had a chance to talk with the men in the platoon. Sergeant Bratcher’s father in Tennessee had a business fixing jukeboxes, a business he planned to join when he retired from the Army. Jo Ann, his wife, had recently broken both her arms, but was moving the family from their last post back to Tennessee.
“She’s a good woman,” he said. “Good soldiers have good wives. I see it all the time.”
The majority of the NCOs in my platoon were black. On average the riflemen were eighteen years old. Most had bad teeth, many had tattoos, and few had graduated high school.
Sgt. Miguel Castro-Carrosquillo from Puerto Rico was one of the platoon clowns. PFC Gilbert P. Spencer was a tall black man from an urban ghetto who led the “Angry Negro Coalition.” Pvt. Antonio De Leon, a college graduate, had been sitting out a year to make money for graduate school when he was drafted. PFC J. V. Patrick was a lanky Texan who had gone through aseries of civilian jobs before joining the Army. Sgt. Roosevelt S. Rome was a burly squad leader who rarely spoke. Pvt. Harold G. Ayers was a large, barely literate eighteen year old from the Midwest. Sgt. Ray E. King was a redheaded noncom who led the 3d Squad. Pvt. Warren J. Manuel, who carried a machine gun, had been in the platoon longer than anyone. He was the fat guy who was in the platoon when I arrived. PFC James E. Newsome carried my PRC-25 radio. Pvt. John J. (Jack) Lyons Jr. from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, was a draftee, Pvt. Beck’s best friend. Together, Lyons and Beck formed an alliance that was seldom challenged in the platoon.
Most of the men had personal situations to settle prior to departure, and most requested leave to go home, except Ayers. Pay allotments had to be taken out, wives and families settled, cars sold, and personal equipment sent home or thrown away.
We received movement orders in mid-August. Our battalion was going by train to the west coast and by ship across the Pacific. Departure was tentatively set a month away, mid-September. Training activities increased. Lt. Col. Robert Haldane, a West Point graduate, was battalion commander. He had an intelligent, educated manner, spoke in a low, resonant voice, and had that intangible quality usually referred to as “presence.” By reputation, he was the finest battalion commander in the 1st Division. With his sidekick, Sergeant Major Bainbridge, he often led the entire battalion on PT runs in the morning.
Men continued to arrive, and most of them immediately went on leave to take care of personal business. Once a day, it seemed, I was called to the orderly room for a telephone call to exclaim, “You have to do what?” or “You’re where?” It was hard to believe some of the twisted situations in which the men—boys mostly—of my platoon had found themselves. Some returned from leave with broken noses, or drunk or broke, in taxis, on buses, thumbing, with pregnant girlfriends or dogs, with chest colds or venereal disease.
“Is there something about going to Vietnam that makes people crazy?” I asked Bratcher.
“Yep,” he said, “there is some of that, but most of these guys are crazy anyway.” Bratcher smiled, and the muscles in his neck tightened and his head jerked to the right.
The platoon was unanimous in its disapproval of war
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