If you have been following Wayne Johnson’s contributions to this publication, dear reader, you will know that he has spent some time in the military. By all accounts, it was a rich and rewarding experience, and he has cherished it ever since.
Sadly, the same cannot be said of my military “career.” It was not rich and rewarding at all; rather, it was the most frightening time of my life. How frightening was it you may ask. It was so frightening that my hair turned prematurely white and I became a 98-pound weakling.
In the first place, I was a draftee. When I received a draft notice in the mail, I instantly thought it was a mistake. The draft board must have had in mind the Chas who lived on the other side of town and sent the notice to the wrong address. A call to the draft board confirmed my worst fears. It had not been a mistake; Uncle Sam wanted me PDQ!
I had no inclination to be a soldier. I was quite happy to be your average lay about. I pondered my options. They were few in number, and so I opted for the least objectionable one. I would migrate to Canada like thousands of other unfortunate souls.
As luck would have it, I was ratted out by some super-patriot who believed I would make good cannon fodder. Just as I was about to take that final step which would put me on Canadian soil, I was roughly seized by a United States marshal who knocked me to the ground, handcuffed me, put shackles on my legs, and literally threw me into the back of a paddy wagon. I was transported to Fort Leavenworth, Kan.. Yes, that Fort Leavenworth, the meanest place in the Federal prison system, where I became the newest recruit.
Fort Leavenworth was the meanest boot camp in the United States Army. And I hesitate to describe the two months during which I was turned into good cannon fodder, because you might think that I am just making this all up.
For starters, the commanding officer (CO) of the training company, a first lieutenant, had delusions of grandeur. He believed he was the reincarnation of a Civil War general. He wasn’t too specific as to which side he was on, however. At 0800 hours, that’s 8 a.m. to you civilians, every day, he would run through the company area, waving a sword and yelling “Charge!” If anyone got in his way, well, that is best left unsaid, but, you get the point.
The executive officer, a second lieutenant, was as laid back as they come. It was the worst kept secret that he smoked pot and that he was a budding Shakespearean actor who quoted the Bard at the drop of a hat. The brass turned a blind eye to his idiosyncrasies because he was only one able to keep the CO on track and thus keep casualties at a minimum.
It then fell to the first sergeant to actually run the training company, and he did so with great relish. He was a graduate of the George C. Patton School of Military Etiquette and any one who made a mistake was immediately slapped on the face. It was rumored that he wore women’s underwear, but anyone who made public remarks in that regard received a big kiss in front of the entire company, a fate worse than death.
In all fairness, there were three things I actually liked about basic training. The first was marching in formation. Marching in formation was the nearest thing to order in the Universe I ever experienced, and I always looked forward to it. My comrades moaned and groaned, but I exulted in the march and held my head up high. And wonder of wonders! I learned the greatest part of marching in formation: The eminently misnamed “stockade shuffle.” I cannot describe this action here because it is very complicated; I would have to demonstrate it in person.
The second thing was rifle training. It may surprise you, dear reader, after reading some of my previous essays, that I love guns. I have studied guns all my life, all sorts of guns, ancient and modern. And I love to shoot guns and I have done so, mostly at inanimate targets. In basic training, I learned to shoot military guns. Whenever we went to rifle training, I pretended to be shooting at the first sergeant who had once kissed me in front of the entire company. That gentleman died many times before his death, with apologies to the Bard.
The third thing was that gourmet delight known crudely as “(stuff) on a shingle.” My comrades moaned and groaned whenever it was served; but, when I first tasted it, I had an epiphany. It was like manna from Heaven! Generally speaking, it was served at least twice a week, but I could have subsisted on it 24/7. I always took double portions and wolfed it all down. And I counted the hours until it was served again. Oh, brave new world, that has such delights in it (again with apologies to the Bard).
I was happy when basic training was completed, and I could go on to advanced training and (hopefully) rich and rewarding experiences. In a future essay, I’ll take up that period, beginning with my taking the wrong train and ending up in Roswell, N.M..