Chapter 1: Training to Kill

A carpet of luxuriant rye grass snaked through the forest floor around dogwood, peach, cherry, magnolia, and Azaleas. Pearly white sand and small coruscating ponds surrounded greens of bent grass, manicured to perfection. Such was Augusta National, a Garden of Eden for golfers.

A few miles away, I stood at attention, a guest of Uncle Sam, sweat pouring off my brow. I wasn’t here for the golf. 

“I’ve seen some pathetic sons of bitches, but you low-life maggots are the worst, turning you losers into soldiers, gonna’ take a goddamn miracle. You’re so dumb, even the Marines wouldn’t take you,” shouted our Drill Sergeant.

It was 1966 when U. S. Army Drill Sergeants (DSs) in Basic Combat Training (BCT) could and did treat trainees virtually any way they pleased: Loud, Vulgar, and occasionally Physical.  

I was counting on the heat, humidity, and farm labor I endured in Mississippi to give me an edge in U.S. Army Basic Combat Training. It was a sweltering summer at Ft. Gordon, near Augusta, Georgia.

During the eight weeks of intense training at the 56,000-acre post, some GIs were seriously injured. Two recruits from our Battalion died from heatstroke. Around the time of these deaths (July 25, 1966), the officially recorded temperature in Augusta was 98 degrees. The humidity was 100 percent! 

There was absolutely no pause in our training, no break (just extra salt tablets) from the stifling heat and humidity. The drill sergeants said if you think this is hot, wait until you get to Vietnam.

Our training company was made up of draftees and volunteers. About half of our group were so-called minorities from the poorer areas in and around New York City.

The rest of the recruits were primarily Caucasian and came from rural and poor regions of the South. A few recruits had advanced degrees, lawyers, etc. From the first two groups, a few had chosen the Army over jail after a judge gave them two options.

In the best of circumstances, this aggregation wasn’t likely to blend very well; with the shock and anxiety of BCT, it was volatile.

There were taunts and insults, along with plenty of pushing and shoving. When it elevated to fists and blood, most were not within sight of a Drill Sergeant. Even the lamest in the groups knew they could end up in the stockade with the possibility of a Bad Conduct Discharge or worse.

Although I was in good shape, I quickly learned that BCT required more than brawn. I also had to appease and maneuver in the virtual minefield around Staff Sgt. Hicks, one of my snarky and callous Drill Sergeants.

The Vietnam veteran, so designated by the large, distinctive 1st Cavalry Division patch — yellow with a small horse’s head and a diagonal black stripe — was worn at shoulder level on his right sleeve. A noteworthy Combat Infantryman Badge (white crest around a rifle in blue) was sewn above his left pocket.

He appeared to be in his late twenties and stood wiry and weathered at about 5’7.” His heavily starched fatigues sported perfectly ironed creases, and the tips of his spit-shined jump boots sparkled black in the bright Georgia sun. Hicks wore his Smoky Bear hat slightly tilted — just above his right eye.

He stood with conviction and authority, and the sergeant’s raspy voice spat out invectives faster than a jacked-up Carnival Barker.  “When I get done with you sorry sissies, y’all wished you’d took the Marines,”* Hicks shouted, ’cause I’m as tough as any Drill Instructor in [Marine] Boot Camp. No, I’ll be tougher, ’cause turning you pathetic sons of bitches into soldiers gonna take a Goddamn miracle!”

Calling Staff Sgt. Hicks’s management style In Your Face would be an understated insult to the man once you saw him in action. He intimidated the candidates of war up close, personal, vulgar, and unrelenting. If we didn’t perform to his satisfaction, which was the usual, Hicks would hurl his favorite insult, “You f– king worthless trainees look like the aftermath of a Chinese g-ng b-ng.”

One didn’t have to screw up to feel the heat; we ran everywhere, dropped for seemingly endless push-ups. Then, we double-timed with our ten-pound M-14s, stiff-armed high over our heads, taunted by Drill Sergeants.

There was marching, lots of marching to cadences like: 

Ain’t no use in calling home

Jody’s got your girl and gone

Your left, Your left, 

Your left, right, left.

Ain’t no use in going back

Jody’s got your Cadillac

Sound off; one-two

three-four;

Ain’t no use in going home

Jody’s got your girl and gone

Sound off; one-two

three-four;

Ain’t no use in feeling blue 

Jody’s got your sister, too

Sound off; on-two

three-four; 

Ain’t no use in looking down

Ain’t no discharge on the ground

Your left, Your left. 

Your left, right, left.

Sound off .  .  .

A typical day began with a rude awakening at 4:30 in the morning. A band of Drill Sergeants was banging garbage can lids while ordering us to “shit, shave, and shower.” Then, we fell into formation for inspection, followed by robust physical training (PT) that included running, calisthenics, and close-order drills. The we had breakfast at 0600-hundered.**

Indoctrination and training ramped up as we met the heat of the day. And we could hardly wait until noon chow to get a break. But we wouldn’t get all the hot food we could eat until we satisfactorily mastered the 12-foot-high horizontal “monkey bars.”

We were required to advance from one bar to another using grip and momentum. Then, there was a required recitation of the 11 General Orders, totaling 65 words about Guard Duty. Last but certainly not least was the low crawl.

By the book, military low crawl is designed for stealthy movement in battlefield conditions. The purpose: Make your body a smaller target for the enemy while moving swiftly, flat on the ground, while keeping your head down. A 30-foot-long, four-foot-wide course with a three-inch furrow dug into the hard Georgia dirt was the obstacle. Here we had to crawl in it fast and low.

The mercury lingered in the high 90s, and we had been humping since 0430. Now there was the added pressure of a rarely seen officer observing us; our platoon leader, 2nd Lt. Harris.

The officer stood like a soldier in a recruiting poster, about six feet tall, with a square jaw and a solid build, wearing gold bars on his collar and cap.  His olive drab fatigues were starched and creased to the point that I believe his uniform would stand erect without him (in it). The tips of his Cochran^® jump boots glistened like black water reflecting from a Georgia swamp.

The lieutenant wanted to see how his troops were progressing. Naturally, first in line for the low crawl was the biggest screw-up in our Company, a tall buzz-cut kid from West Virginia. The recruit dropped into the dirt and crawled, but he wasn’t flat to the ground and moving too slowly. The Drill Sergeants yelled, “Get your butt down, soldier, you’re gonna’ get it shot off.”

The officer was not amused. Harris waved our boy out of the dirt, spun off his cap, and dropped into the pit hard. Then, while perfectly flat, he pulled himself forward with quick twists of his arms and elbows and pushed with swift kicks of his knees and feet.  He plowed through the soil like an International-Harvester ^® and slithered in the clumps of dirt faster than an alligator in Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp. 

When Lt. Harris stood, gathered his cap from the dirt, and brushed himself off, three buttons on his fatigue jacket hung by a single thread. 

Drop and give me 20 and get back in the dirt is what we were expecting. Instead, Harris, about two inches from the recruit’s face, unleashed in a low growl, “Five good men die in Vietnam every day,” then he let loose with his loud commanding voice,  “because of f–k-ups like you, get outta my sight, you worthless piece of shit.”

Without any prompting, the remainder of our platoon and I immediately fell in line. We dropped into the dirt and low crawled with sufficient motivation. 

After the low crawl wake-up call from our platoon leader, Lieutenant, there were still miles to go before we slept. There was more PT, followed by marksmanship training with live ammo, hand-to-hand combat, and combat tactics. By now, we had a fresh set of Drill Instructors. 

We marched five miles in full gear, then trained in mortars, hand grenades, and again with our M-14s. Daily indoctrination continued until 1900-hundred. Our day was longer during night maneuvers — and one was subject to details until 2200-hundred when lights-out was called.

The hammer over our heads was the real threat of combat. If we could withstand the rigors of Basic and hone some combat tactics, we would have a better chance of survival in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

The intent of BCT was to break down the recruit to the lowest form of life. Then, slowly build him back up while indoctrinating the candidate to obey orders — immediately and unquestionably.

BCT taught the skills the U.S. Army had determined would best serve the soldier in combat; it was intense, rote, and rigorous. If the soldier’s skills were sufficient and so ingrained, his training would kick in automatically in a combat scenario — practically without thinking.  That’s the theory, and there is some evidence to support it.

As desperate as the U.S. Army was for soldiers, a few days later, we saw the guy who couldn’t crawl. It was “Goober” (wise like a fox?), boarding a Greyhound.™ He was allowed to keep his khakis and low quarters and was dressed in them on his way back to West Virginia.

I’m thinking, oh boy, one less screw-up in the company, making it more likely that the DSs would have more time to harass us average trainees. Now, some recruits were saying, “I can screw up real good; let them bus me out.” But what about those who had been told, “Jail or the Army?” Others were saying, “Go ahead and ship me to Vietnam now, away from these sadistic Drill Sergeants.”

The U. S. Army had managed to turn Georgia, U.S.A., into its own combat zone.

Our training was hard, fast, and ruthless; the sergeants pushed us to exhaustion, made it unbearable, and sought to find our breaking point. Our training may not have been Green Beret or Ranger-tough, but our Drill Sergeants were no pussies. 

The sergeants taunted us unmercifully, causing a few men to break. Those were recycled, sent to the shrink, or, in rare cases, back home. Better to have a meltdown in BCT than in combat. The theory: “The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in battle.”

There was a brief rest period during mail call, late in the afternoon, while we were on field exercises. The frequent letters from Marty (my girl in NC) and Momma were a significant morale boost. After the command to fall out, our Drill Sergeants announced in a loud but friendly voice: Smoke ’em if you got ’em.*** 

During one of the smoke breaks, a Drill Sergeant asked where I was from. When I replied “Mississippi,” he said to a fellow DS, “He’s a 20-year man…. never had two pairs of shoes.” During the same respite, a trainee was laughing loudly. The same DS asked him, what was so damn funny? Then the sergeant, without waiting for a reply from the soldier, quipped for everyone to hear,  “I’ve been in the Army 20 years, and I haven’t heard one damn thing that was funny.” 

With a fresh set of Drill Sergeants, we headed to chow at 1600-hundred; the same rules applied as with the other meals; a recruit couldn’t get into the mess hall until successful completion of the low crawl, monkey bars, and recitation of General Orders.

If a trainee failed any of these exercises, he had to start over by going to the back of the line. Undoubtedly, some never mastered all the tasks in time to get fed. When we feasted on C-Rations in the field, those rules were waived, but there was less “food” and calories in those cans.

After the early evening feed, we were seated in classrooms for lectures on tactics and to review combat films from Vietnam; anyone falling asleep, and several did, would get 20 push-ups or more.  

Finally, we remained in the buildings where we began taking apart, cleaning, and reassembling our M-14s. In the final evaluation, we were required to perform those tasks while blindfolded. Failing any major exercise like this would get the trainee recycled, or, as the Drill Sergeants said, “Start basic all over again.”

Our next stop was at the chemical compound, where we were locked in chambers filled with tear gas and remained there for at least a minute to gauge our reaction. Now with masks around our waists, we were sent in the gas again and got no relief until our protective gear was fitted correctly.

Then we double-timed to the range for a special live-fire exercise, which all were required to experience during BCT. Conducted under darkness, coincidentally, while low crawling under razor wire, M-60 machine-gun bullets blazed 10-12 inches over our heads at 2,800 feet per second.

Panic during this exercise, and you’re unlikely to worry about any more training or Vietnam.  As bad as the Drill Sergeants were and as hard as the training was, heat prostration notwithstanding, one was unlikely to die from it. Getting burned with a 7.62-mm projectile traveling four times the speed of sound was a decidedly different matter.

By about 2100 hundred, we had marched or double-timed back to the barracks or tents for inspection of our footlockers, latrine, and living areas. Ft. Gordon ran out of barracks as training had ramped up with Vietnam in full swing. Our platoon was quartered in a smelly and musty WWII-type tent. If we passed inspection, lights were out by 2200-hundred.

Except for allowing us to attend an occasional religious service and free time on some Sunday afternoons, we trained for 60 straight days and nights. Those lucky enough to avoid injury, recycle, or worse, finally met all the requirements and completed US Army Basic Combat Training. Despite Sgt. Hicks — I graduated from BCT in the upper third of my company of 150 — or maybe because of him.

Had my Mississippi work ethic given me an edge? Maybe, but the real test would inaugurate some 9,200 miles from Georgia.

Next move: Advanced Individual Training (AIT) weeks or even months, depending upon one’s Military Occupational Specialty (MOS). Like Infantry, Artillery, Special Forces, Engineers, Cooks, Native-language speakers, Aviation, Chaplain’s assistants, Divers, Veterinary food inspectors, Cryptologic linguists, and many others, most headed to Vietnam.

Most of us would get leave before our advanced individual training. After successfully completing AIT, we would be prepared — and hopefully ready — for WAR.

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*Some GIs were drafted into the Marines, and others “volunteered” for the Corps at the reception station.

**It’s not 0600 hours, it’s simply 0600-hundred. Yet many writers present it that way. to make it sound more authentic, I suppose. But this is incorrect and redundant; replace “hours” with “hundred”. (0430 is just that) 2400-hundred is midnight, and 0600-hundred is six hours before.

***Smoke ’em if you gotta ’em, is obviously an opportunity for a cigarette. Furthermore, the military meaning implies you deserve this break, and who knows when you’ll get another.

When a chapter ends, and you can go no further, click “Older Posts” or “Previous Article” to bring up the next chapter. Don’t ask. At the end of some chapters, however, there is a specific chapter that you can bring up simply by highlighting.

I am inconsistent in how I post-dates; e.g., when I’m writing about a strictly military event, it’s 20 March, and in other stories it’s March 20. I started using meters, kilometers, knots, etc., when I got to Vietnam.

Finally,  Enjoy.

If you’re reading the Vietnam Only portion of this Book, scroll to Chapter 12.

Popping and creaking in the unrelenting July sun, heat waves were shimmering and rising from the rusty tin roof of our old farmhouse. It was no mirage. It was Mississippi, hot-humid-hard-time Mississippi. 

In 1955, at age eight, just out of the first grade, I knew there had to be life beyond farming and backcountry living.  I was already thinking of and looking for a way out. Dreaming was more like it because I was short on specifics.

Up the two front steps, the six-foot-deep front porch spanned the 36-foot width of the house. A swing hung from a rafter on the right side of the porch, an Adirondack chair, and a straight-back chair sat on the floor nearby. The 10-foot-wide hall ran through the middle.

Still standing, as seen in 2011, built circa 1898. Note original stone foundation. (Swan archives)

Our back porch was a continuation of the hallway, except it was open on the left. On the wall to the right hung a two-gallon galvanized bucket with an aluminum dipper. It was our access to drinking water. To the left, on the back porch, a one-gallon aluminum pan sat on a board about four feet above the floor. It served as our washbasin.

Access to our 13 x 13-foot kitchen, to the right of the back porch, had light-blue walls and a dark linoleum floor. Daddy’s straight-backed chair sat at the head of the “eating table,” and a long bench on one side, and a few upright chairs surrounded the rest. There was a window on the wall behind the bench that provided a view north to the gravel road. Three hutches served as cupboards. One featured a built-in flour sifter. Anchored in a corner, near the entry door, rested the main attraction — a large black (no brand name) cast-iron wood-burning cook stove (circa 1930) with its four burners, baking oven, and two warming closets.

A 13 x 13-foot living-sleeping room was on each side, midway through the breezeway. Momma and Daddies were on the right. The original wood plank flooring was worn smooth from decades of foot traffic. Oval-framed pictures of relatives long past hung on the unpainted walls. A rustic black iron bedstead supported a feather bed on its frame, and a couple of straight-back hickory chairs with bulrush seats rested nearby.

A fireplace with a small hearth and brick surround stood in the center of the outer wall. A pair of blackened andirons, embellished with the image of a dog, was used to lift the logs off the hearth and prevent them from falling forward. Two tall translucent vases filled with noteworthy papers sat on the mantel. An old dresser, missing its mirror, was stationed in the corner near the fireplace. Momma’s foot-peddled Honeymoon (brand) sewing machine (circa 1910) rested nearby.

A window five feet tall and three feet wide, composed of 8 x 10-inch sheets of glass, was located to the right of the fireplace and provided a view north toward the gravel road. Some panes were held in place with dressmaker pins and needles pushed into their wooden frames. A similar window on the right side wall provided a view of the front porch and beyond.

The room across the hall was identical and similarly furnished, except for an additional bed and walls painted a light blue.

Two kerosene lamps provided lighting for all rooms, with dark orange fonts, flat cotton wicks, and 8-inch-high chimney globes. Each lamp’s 10 to 15-lumen output provided about the same brightness as one medium-sized candle.

Indoor living space amounted to about 700 square feet, including the “side rooms” on opposite ends of the hall that stored canned goods and clothing. In one of those rooms, we were storing for someone, an old ornate organ (circa 1930) with a built-in mirror; surely the most valuable item in the house. While pumping the well-worn pedals, striking the keys, and experimenting with the draw knobs, I eventually learned to play Rock of Ages.

A fabricated windlass using a short sweet-gum log with a handle, a rope-and-pulley system, and a galvanized bucket was used to draw water from a 20-foot-deep well. In the summer, when we needed it most, it was barely adequate. Covered by an open tin shed, the well was just a few feet to the right of the front porch, beside a sweet shrub.

The two-seater outhouse that Momma built was situated on a gentle slope about 150 feet behind and just to the right of the back porch. Supported on one end by a mulberry tree and the other by a cedar post, the floor was dirt. It was framed similarly to our chicken coop across the road, which Momma also built.

The scrap-plank theme of the privy had the weathered look of the outside of our house and the same sloping roof. The entryway on the left had no door, but it faced the woods. The two taking care of business holes were cut, octagon style, again, rough plank. There was no lighting or water, of course, but a Sears, Roebuck & Company catalog was there for clean-up and an excellent chance for me to fantasize while exploring the foundation section.

In the large backyard, apple, peach, pecan, walnut, and fig trees grew along with Scuppernong and other grape varieties. Farther behind the house, our 8 x 15-foot smokehouse, with its high ceiling, abutted a grove of long leaf pines. Our pigpen was to the left, about 200 feet away, usually downwind.

A portion of the front yard, from the porch to the gravel road, looked like the infield of a baseball diamond, as an alternative to grass (not uncommon at the time). Momma scraped the area clear of vegetation with a hoe and kept it that way.

Just to the left, was Momma’s impressive 20 x 20-foot varietal flower garden. She planted, nurtured, and cared for that beautiful plot–envied by those who had the fortune to walk into Momma’s version of peace and tranquility — with her fragrant magnolias, dahlias, snowballs, hydrangeas, black-eyed susans, and other beauties.

A sharecropper’s shack, with its roof collapsing, sat 50 feet to the north, making our dogtrot look pretty good; a reminder that our family may have had even more challenging times. Still, most of my clothes and shoes were hand-me-downs from my older cousin Frankie. Having footwear in the summer months was not an issue; my brother and I went barefoot.

Across the road, some large sweet gum trees stood beside a few small cedars. Slightly to the right, two 10 x 12 x 15-foot tall structures served as corn and cotton cribs. A small chicken coop was attached to one. Still farther to the right stood our 20 x 30-foot barn, its roof and sides covered with corrugated tin; behind it was a corral large enough to hold a few livestock.

Not far to the right of the barn was a half-acre field, our nearest cotton patch.

The narrow gravel road that ran past our house, just thirty feet from our doorsteps, was seldom traveled, led to pretty much nowhere, and didn’t hit pavement for miles.

For me, a passing vehicle was an event. Six days a week, I could expect about three: the mail carrier, a farm truck, or a tractor.

Sitting on the edge of the front porch facing south toward the pigpen in my Big Buck overalls, I was swinging my legs and trying to reach the shaded grass to cool my heels when I remembered a chore I’d forgotten.

I dropped my feet into the six-inch-tall Johnson grass, made a sharp turn right, and raced 40 feet or so toward the backyard, and stopped under a scrawny crab apple tree. Its fruit fell too early for good eating; however, it was suitable for hogs.

I was tossing the sad apples into a bushel basket when I heard the sound of a vehicle, fast approaching from the north, blocked from my sight by the house.

With my toes planted in the grass, I sprinted toward the road. I made it in time to get a perfect view.

Not more than 20 feet directly in front of me was a speeding car kicking up rocks and dust. But it was no farmer hauling hay, nor a local heading to a fishing hole.