Some Post-Veteran's Day Thoughts

From http://www.honorourmilitary.us/veterans-day-parade/

If you read through the "Who Is This Guy" tab on the right, you will discover that I am a veteran. It's not something that I make a big deal about. I went into the Army straight out of high school and stayed in for only one enlistment period. I learned a lot about life in that time, and am grateful to all the seasoned leadership (good and bad) that I learned from. I matured there in a way I never would have if I had chose a different path. In turn, I gave back to my country. It was a win-win.

So I approached this veterans day like many of my brothers in arms, respectful of those that gave more service and somewhat sheepish about making a big deal about it. One of the grocery chains in my area has special parking year around for veterans. Most times I won't park there, figuring there are others more deserving of that honor. But sometimes I will. After all, I did honorable service and am fully entitled to this minor perk. As far as all the free meals and discounts offered by merchants on Veteran's Day, I have never taken any of those; not because I purposefully eschewed them, but mostly because I just don't need them. 

That gives you some context for what I am about to write next. I had an odd encounter this Veterans Day. As part of my daily ritual, I dropped by a different grocery store on my way home from work. This particular store is one that I frequent every other day, so they kind of know me there. The people that work there seem like nice people and are generally hard workers, doing an honest business. After the clerk rings up my purchase, he ask "Are you retired or active duty military?"

The question kind of threw me. I knew it was Veteran's Day, and this question was asked because they probably were going to add some discount if I answered yes. However, I stumbled a bit before I stammered out a "No". In retrospect, the question, and the distinction behind it ended up bothering me a bit. I wasn't active duty, and no, I didn't put in 20 years service that would entitle me the label of military retired. But this was Veteran's Day! I was an honorably discharged veteran, and this grocery chain was, in a small way, deciding to make that distinction. That kind of bothered me a little.

I did a little research on this to look at the numbers. There are 1.4 million active duty personnel in the US and 1.4 million retired military  (page 7) drawing retirement pay. On the other hand there are  19.3 million veterans alive and kicking in the US. Doing the math on that:

(1.4m active duty + 1.4m retired)/(19.3m total veterans + 1.4 active duty) = 13.5 %

So this particular chain made the reasonable distinction that they would honor those who have served or were serving, but only 13.5% of them. I understand they had to limit their loss, while seeming to do the right thing from a PR viewpoint. However, let's look a little closer at those numbers. The total population of the US over 18 years old is around 209 million. So if you look at the relative percentage of the persons who have served or am currently serving:

(19.3m total veterans + 1.4m active duty)/209m =  discounts for 9.9% of consumers

vs.

(1.4m active duty + 1.4m retired)/209m = discounts for 1.3% of consumers

I guess it makes some economic sense. But for many veterans, it kind of leaves a bad taste in our mouths. Make no mistake, I served under some of those old dogs, and they truly deserve every honor and break that they get. On the other hand, Veteran's Day is a day for all of us, not just the soldiers who have made the military their life. It rings somewhat hollow when you do that. I am not going to change where I shop because of this, nor should any one else. 

I just ask the retailers to pause and think about that feeling they are about to give the 92% of the veterans that will walk through their door on Veteran's Day, and ask themselves: Is this really a good idea? I really could care less about the money. If that same clerk had asked me if I was a veteran and thanked me for my service it would have made my day. If he gave me a small discount on my purchase, all the better. What I ending up feeling walking away from the store was something all together different. Those feelings are probably not something you ant a consumer to have upon exiting your store. So next Veteran's Day I ask you to think this through just a little more, ok?

Note: This is part one of my 9 days of Thanksgiving Break. I intend to write a little every day of the break. I hope it is entertaining, but I admit that most times it may not be... enjoy and let me know what you think either via email or in the comments. Thank you for reading and linking!

Damn it's cold!

With the dreaded polar vortex sweeping across the nation, about the only thing I can think about on this first day back to the real world of work and worry is how damn cold it is. Have I mentioned how much I despise the cold of winter? Yes? Good! I must admit, in my current secret bunker in an undisclosed location in Maryland, the vortex has yet to make itself felt. I fear that by tonight we shall be in it's dreaded grasp. I believe a polar vortex was the basis for this movie:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Day_After_Tomorrow

I think we are safe though. The temperature is only projected to reach down to the single digits tonight in the DC area. While our fearless leader has returned to capitol city to face this dreaded menace with up, he wisely decided to his lovely bride in Hawaii. I don't know what to say about that other than as a taxpayer, I don't appreciate the additional $100000 or so this move will cost me.

I recall the coldest temperature that I ever experienced was during my stay in Alaska under the kind care of Uncle Sam and the US Army. As I recall, the temps were 30 below or so, and we deployed to Fairbanks for the annual winter exercises. No sled dogs were needed for this little journey, instead the venerable jeeps, equipped with 'winter kits' and pulling trailers containing 8 man tents, cots, and flooring were all that was needed.

Upon arriving at out camping spot, er bivouac area, we went about setting up. The eight man tents were erected, cots set up, and Yukon stoves installed. A Yukon stove is a bizarre invention. It basically is a stove that burns gas or JP4. The gas can goes on the outside of the tent, and the feed line goes into the stove. The gravity fed gas stream drips on the hot burn plate where it explodes/burns and the glowing stove heats the tent up to a tolerable level. That being said, it was common to find a sheet of ice underneath the sleeping bags on the cots from moisture evaporated from the sleeping bags.

I mainly remember the pain of the cold more than anything else. I also recall that once the temperature got down to -15 or so, there wasn't much of a difference between that and -30. The cold does funny and unexpected things. For example, certain chemical reactions will not happen once the temperature drops below a certain level. This was illustrated for me rather dramatically. As the one counter-intelligence squad in the Military Intelligence Detachment, it was our job to evaluate the use of camouflage by the troops. To perform that task our lieutenant had secured the use of a helicopter to fly over the units to evaluate them. I was tasked to go along as the photographer. Other than a short hop as part of my training when I first arrived in Alaska, I had never been on a helicopter, so I was agog by the adventure of it all. We got airborne, and the lieutenant started directing me to take pictures. The problem was that the camera hadn't been protected from the cold, so the emulsion agents necessary for the Polaroid film to work had turn turned into a gooey mess. When I triggered the first picture, the camera jammed beyond all recovery. The conversation went something like this:

lieutenant (in the front seat): "there - get a picture of that!"
me (in the back): "Yes Sir!"
<pause..>
lieutenant: "Did you get it? Do we need to circle back?"
me: "Sir... we have a problem..."
lieutenant: "Campbell - what's the problem"
me: "Well Sir, the camera seems to be malfunctioning"
lieutenant: "Keep working on it"
irritated pilot: "Do we need to go back?"
lieutenant: "No, i'm sure he will get it fixed."

To make a long story short, I didn't get it fixed as gooey film, once frozen could not be reconstituted. I am not really sure how critical the pictures were to whatever we were doing up there, but I felt really bad about it, even though I had no experience with that kind of weather or Polaroids. At the time I had quite a bit of experience with 35mm film and cameras, and the unit had no shortage of those and a darkroom. Of course the darkroom, cameras, and film were in Anchorage and we were in Fairbanks, which is why we were using Polaroids. Needless to say, the trip was something of a waste, and I learned a valuable lesson about the cold and Polaroids.

Salute!

Happy Veteran's Day to my fellow veterans! I was fortunate in that I served during the cold war and never got shot at. There are uncounted many more of my fellow veterans who served in much tougher times, and my hat is off to them. That we continue to have the finest Army in the world is a testament  to the men and women of this nation that continue to volunteer and give their professionalism and bravery to grateful nation. Here's hoping we as a nation can somehow continue to be worthy of their sacrifice.

Here's a picture of me getting my corporal stripes (yeah - they promoted fast in the Intel ranks) I can't believe I was ever that young! Then again, I am old enough to have spent some time being trucked around in the back of a M35 too (Deuce-N-Half - pictured above). My Sargent stripes got pinned on a bit later...

Tales of a Cold Warrior - Hat Apology, Long Dusty Walks, and Grenades

(To get the full story, you may want to go back and start from the beginning)

I would like to say that much of the memories of basic training have not faded, but alas time is the great thief of memories. There are a few bright images from that period that stand out that I will never forget, either because they were frustrating, poignant, or amusing. The hat apology was one of them. To set the stage, even in the brutal environment of basic, I attempted to be a shadow. That’s not to insinuate that I took crap from anyone, but it does imply that I did not have an aggressive personality. One of the points of basic was to cull the timid out of you. There is no place on the battlefield for a timid soldier. The drills, being excellent at assessing the troops under their tutelage, spotted this tendency in me and worked to remove it.

The turning point for me came one morning in the mess hall. During meals, all the drill sergeants sat at the head table. Directly behind them was the entrance to the kitchen where trays and plates were dropped off for cleaning. They would make it a habit to place their drill hats on the ledge of the low wall separating the mess hall from the scullery, which ran behind their table. I believe their purpose for sitting there was four fold. First, it gave them a full view of the mess hall so they were able to see if any trouble was developing among their charges. That's not to imply that fights were common. I guess they might have been if we weren't all so damn tired most of the time. Secondly, it faced the entrance of the hall, so they could see if anyone important came in (like a lost officer) and when their troops were exiting. Thirdly, they could monitor the plates being returned to ensure that everyone was eating. Eating was extremely important as the activity during training was necessarily at a high level and the caloric intake had to match that demand. It is safe to say that I never ate so much and lost weight as quickly as those first few months in the Army. Finally (and probably most important) the wall was a great place to put their hats while they were eating.

So on this particular occasion I was rushing to get my tray returned and back outside. You see we were not allowed to idle over or meals. We had a very limited time to eat, and were expected to do so with as much dispatch as we could muster. To this day I don’t know if I was bumped, careless, or just tired, but on the way out of the scullery, I brushed against Sgt F’s hat at the end of the wall, knocking it off and onto the floor. Now in a normal society such a transgression would be no big deal. You would pick the hat up, brush it off, put it back, and go about your business. This was not a normal society. A drill’s hat was his mark of authority. The mere act of touching it was transgression that was at the root of many a motivational speech. For example “You little weakling, if you think your tough come & knock this hat off my head” (no one ever did). As I watched the hat drop, I knew I was in for it. Everyone in the mess hall did too, for a hush fell over the hall, as my fellow recruits waited for what was sure to be a swift and entertaining retribution.

Sgt F responded immediately. In his best Barney Fife voice, he demanded “Who knocked this hat down?” I immediately confessed to the transgression, and made the mistake of saying “I’m sorry, I did it”. I suspect that my frequent use of the phrase “I’m sorry” was starting to bug Sgt. F, as he responded “I’m SORRY? Are you SORRY? Or did YOU make a mistake and want to APOLOGIZE? ‘I’m SORRY’ means you’re a SORRY person! Are you a sorry INDIVIDUAL? TELL you what – since you’re SORRY, why don’t you tell the hat how SORRY you are? Drop and give me 30 pushups!” As I dropped and started, he stopped me. “NO – you are NOT doing that RIGHT. With every pushup I want you to say ‘I’m SORRY hat!” So there, to the amusement of all the drills and my training company, I did 30 pushups, yelling “I’M SORRY HAT” with each one. To this day, I never say “I’m sorry”. I’ll say “I was wrong”, or even “I apologize”, but never “I’m sorry”. The one lesson I learned from that experience is that to say you’re ‘sorry’ diminishes yourself, while admitting a mistake does not. There is a fine but infinitely important line there, and a valuable life lesson.

Much of the rest of basic was conditioning. We walked everywhere we went, whether it was a range 5 miles away, or a confidence course 5 miles in the other direction. On these long marches we walked in two columns, one on each side of the road, rifles slung. More often than not there was one poor sap jogging a circle around the group, rifle held aloft, working out some transgression (usually in attitude). For want of anything better to do, I ended up getting the Hispanic guy that I usually followed on these marches to teach me Spanish curse words.

The most frustrating thing I recall from basic training was the grenade training. The drills were less than thrilled to do the grenade training at all. After all, most of us were not destined for the combat arms, and would never see a live grenade after leaving basic training. That being said, since the Army had determined that all recruits would be trained in the use of grenades, we were. Now naturally, the drill’s goal in this training did not necessarily mean that we would actually be able to use a grenade in combat. No, I suspect their goal was mainly to get everyone through the training without a drill or a recruit getting some critical piece of anatomy blown off. With that goal in mind, we were taught to pull the pin, throw the grenade, and duck! 

This was an excellent instruction method for training safety. However, it vexed me that I couldn't watch the arc of the grenade and thus correct my throws and improve their accuracy when working with the practice grenades. The value of the ‘duck’ instruction was realized when it came time to use ‘real’ grenades. I had never seen the drills so formal or grave as they were at the grenade range. For the real deal, you would join a drill in the throwing pit. He would hand you the live grenade, instruct you to pull the pin and throw it. I suspect their greatest fear was a troop with a live grenade, pin pulled but unable to release it. 

My time with the live grenade was uneventful and anticlimactic. I may have come close to the target, but given the ‘throw – duck’ execution, I will never know. It was grenade next to the chest, pull the pin, extend the arm, for the briefest of moments consider releasing the spoon and letting it cook off like they do in the movies - then reject that as something that would cause me much pain in running around the formation, an awkward overhand lob, then a duck! (not so kindly assisted by the hand of the waiting drill). As I recall there was one guy that muffed the throw and did not clear the throwing pit. The drill grabbed him and jumped in the pit behind, placed there for just that purpose. They weren't injured - well unless you count the burning ears of everyone in audible range of the drill in question. As I recall that guy was circling us the whole way back to the barracks.

Next: Final Blowout, Graduation, and Orders 

Tales of a Cold Warrior - Meet the Sergeant



http://www.vtarmynavy.com/military-gi-helmet-cat-eyes.htm

(To get the full story, you may want to go back and start from the beginning)

When I was growing up, the preacher in the church that I went to had various sermons which we all came to be familiar with, his most famous being his ‘Mustard Seed’ sermon, which I think I heard every year from about 6 until I left home at 18. That being said, there isn’t much that I can remember about that sermon, other than mustard seeds were really small, but make big trees. No, the one thing that I remember Dr. Hayes, a WWII veteran, talking about was his entry into basic training, and more specifically, something to this effect:

“You may forget the names of the kids you grew up with. You may forget the name of the preacher that baptized you. You may forget birthdays and anniversaries, but you will never, ever, forget the name of your drill sergeant”

My drill sergeant’s name was Sgt Martell. He was a large, imposing man with flaming red hair, and more than a touch of an Irish brawler. His assistant drill, whose name I actually don’t recall but will refer to as Sgt F, was the exact opposite: think of a Barney Fife and you will get the right impression. That is not to say that Sgt F was not a very important part of my basic training, it’s just that most of the direction, discipline, and guidance came from Sgt Martell.

In fact, upon arriving at the barracks of D-4-3, my training company, the sergeant to greet us was Sgt F. We arrived a couple of days early, so there was much time spent getting settled in and the environment was just a bit looser than it would be in just a couple of days. Sgt F got us settled in, and immediately begin working us on marching and drilling. Once he ascertained that I knew how to call a cadence and issue marching commands, I got stuck with drilling the rest of the recruits.

After a day or so, our company had grown to full strength, and Sgt Martell made his introductions. As I recall it was a fall out for morning exercises, and he showed up and introduced himself by talking us on a short run, which as I recall resulted in most of the platoon puking on the side of the road. From there, the first day was a haze of pushups, running, marching, yelling, resting, and eating. The first day ended with a particularly poignant speech by the company’s first sergeant.

It seems that in order to accommodate ‘integrated’ basic training, where women and men companies trained side by side, the Army had avoided building co-located barracks, and instead had merely split the existing barracks in half via a thin wall of sheetrock. Since this necessarily created a one exit floor in violation of accepted fire codes, the contractor had sidestepped the issue by painting that section of the wall with a prominent sign that noted, “IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK THROUGH WALL”. This wall was the subject the first sergeant’s speech (made only to the male recruits), which went something like this:

“Gentleman, you may have noted that at the end of some of your barracks halls there is a firewall. Some of the more intelligent among you may have noted that on the other side of that wall are the female barracks. Now over time, some industrious individuals have managed to poke some holes through those walls. Now rumor has it those females will sit on the other side of that wall, and tell you all sorts of things to mess with your mind. But I tell you- the first recruit to go through that wall will spend the rest of their enlistment breaking large rocks into small ones. Do you understand?”

The next most memorable point in my basic training came in the following week when I was issued my M-16. I had been around guns all my life and had always been utilitarian objects. I hunted with them, I carried a rifle or shotgun on my grandfather’s farm while wondering the hills, both for protection from rattlesnakes and the opportunity for game, and I had spent many, many dark motionless hours on the range, honing my marksmanship skills. But until that point I had never held in my hands a rifle whose sole purpose was to kill.

It may have been that it was mostly made of plastic, but it had a very cold, deadly, and unreal feel to it. I should note here that I had never used a pistol, which in most cases, are only for death dealing. That experience was unique for me, and I only felt it again when I was issued a .45, and later when I went through the FBI’s weapon familiarization course at Quantico. An interesting tidbit about the M16’s of that era. Many of the ones issued had been in the inventory since Viet Nam. Thus, some of them were war manufactured by that well known defense and toy manufacturer Mattel. I can’t recall if mine was, but I do distinctly remember noting that several of my squad’s were proudly stamped “Made by Mattel” - but they were no toys...

Next: Hat Apology, Long Walks Down Dirt Roads and Grenades

Tales of a Cold Warrior - Entering the Dragon



(To get the full story, you may want to go back and start from the beginning)

I can't say I remember much about getting on the bus in Memphis, nor the bus ride from there to St.  Louis. The bus ride from St. Louis to Ft. Leonard Wood was memorable only at the end. In fact, I don't remember getting on the bus to Ft. Leonard Wood. The Army's goal for that ride was simple, probably honed over many years of dealing with volunteer troops bound for their introduction to the Army family.

We must have been purposefully directed to the busses by gender, as I don't recall any females on the bus, even though my training company had a female platoon. In fact, I do not recall the drills even getting on the bus with us. However, they were there for the ride, talking and laughing, and purposefully being human. As we pulled into the reception area, the head drill on our bus told us that he and his fellow drills were human, and were about to be true assholes, that it was part of the process and not to take it personally. That this was the last time until after we graduated we would see the human part, but to remember that it was there. Or words to that effect...

Then the doors to the bus opened and everything changed. From what seemed like all directions we were assaulted by a barrage of angry yelling men. "Go here", "Move faster", "What the hell are you doing?", and the inevitable "drop and give me 10". We were herded into lines, a ragtag group of civilians adrift among a wolf pack of drill sergeants. There was a speech then by the head sergeant. He talked about what a privilege it was for us to be in the Army and how it was his job to prepare us. He also said that graduating basic was going to be the hardest thing we had ever done. He then directed our attention to the now empty buses idling behind us. He told us that if we wanted to drop out now was the time, we just had to tell one of the drills and they would put us back on the bus. What he didn't want was someone trying to sneak away, as all manner of bad things would befall you in that case. I do remember a few guys getting back on the bus.

From there we were herded into a chow hall for a very unmemorable meal, and then segmented into the reception barracks for a night sleep. At that time, the reception barracks at Ft. Leonard Wood were vintage WW2 barracks which consisted of a double row of cots in an open bay.  I don’t think I got a lot of sleep that first night. There was too much going on, both inside my head and around me. Somehow, we made it through that and got shuffled off to ‘processing’ where our hair got cut by a group of old Filipino men. We were issued our uniforms, boots, underwear, and web gear by a group of fairly bored looking quartermaster corporals, which we carried to a group of old Filipino women to sew the various patches, name tags, and for those of us who had our PFC stripes (due to ROTC participation) our rank. How all those Filipinos came to be in the middle of Missouri cutting hair, sewing, and as I was to find out later, cooking and dating drill sergeants is a mystery.

Eventually we were sent to our training company. Given that training, even basic training, must occur on a schedule, and the number of training companies in existence at any given time are dictated by personnel availability and ultimately budget, in the fall of 1980 there was probably a new training company starting every month. I assume that my training company was not too different from others and consisted of three male platoons and one female platoon. Each platoon consisted of four squads of 7 to 8 men (or women – but at that time never mixed gender). Squad leaders were assigned by rank. The only people that had rank upon entry into basic were kids that had ROTC in high school or prior service individuals re-entering the service after being out for a while. We really didn’t see the prior service guys after reception as they were regulated to staff support positions. This seems right to me as there really was no need to put them through the mental rigors of basic, but probably required a different acclimation process. In any case, it was probably easier for the drills to instill the proper attitude without someone who had been through it all already mucking it up.  Oddly enough, I think I was the only one in my platoon that had been in ROTC. I suspect that reflects that nature of the military then. Most of us were there not necessarily out of a sense of duty, though that was true on some level or we would not have signed up, but also we sort of just fell into the service without planning.

So I was made squad leader by virtue of my ROTC experience. At the time, I thought that it was due to my ability to walk in a straight line and knowing how to salute. I suspect it as a little more than that, as throughout basic other squad leaders were brought up and down, but I remained. I think I was just lucky in that regard as somehow my squad managed to avoid the screw-ups of the other squads.

Next: Meet The Sergeant

Tales of a Cold Warrior – Lifting My Hand and Swearing

(To get the full story, you may want to go back and start from the beginning)

For those that don’t know, there is a line when you join the Army that demarks a point of no return. That is the point where you sign your enlistment papers, then lift your hand and take the oath. The oath itself is the same as everyone who serves, from the lowest private to the commander in chief (in a similar form). Even after all these years, I remember the first bit, though I did have to Google to get the second half:

I, _____, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

I don’t remember much about the ceremony. I remember a crowded room with a bunch of guys in it. While some people had their parents with them, I was alone except for the recruiter as I was already 18 and did not need parental approval. I do remember that the signing and swearing were all done at the same time. After the ceremony, I returned home. A few days later I got my orders and bus ticket to Ft. Leonard Wood, MO for my basic training.

That summer between swearing in, graduation from high school, and leaving for basic training was uneventful. I did carry quite a bit of anxiety for how I would fare in basic training. I had after all led a fairly protected life. I was about to go away from home in the most dramatic way possible, probably never to return in any permanent way. While I wasn’t in bad shape, I also had concerns about how I would fare physically in basic.

As a partial compensation for these feeling, I decided that then was a good time to take some karate classes. At that time, there weren’t really any dojos near where I lived in the outskirts of Memphis. I didn’t really know anyone who could advise me for a good dojo, and, I hadn’t really researched martial arts beyond knowing that the difference between judo and karate. I did have a friend that I grew up who lived down the street that had taken judo lessons. He related how he had spent most of the three months he took lessons learning how to fall down. This didn’t really seem like what I was looking for, so I had ruled out Judo.

The dojo I ended up picking out of the phone book was a little place off of Summer Ave. run by Master Kang Rhee. Master Rhee was a little guy, but one tough little Korean. Technically, what he taught was not karate, but a blend of karate, Kung Fu, and TaeKwonDo called PaSaRyu (Way of Honor). I was blissfully unaware his association with Elvis until I earned my yellow belt and he wrote 'TCB' on my sparring gear and belt, and the symbol for a Lion. For those not versed in Elvis lore, 'TCB' means 'Taking Care of Business'. It is amusing to see Elvis do karate moves in his concert videos and recognize pieces of the katas I was learning. I did a search to see if the dojo was still in business, and amazingly, it is - though not in the same location. Master Rhee must be in his 80s, but is still listed as an instructor. I do remember his second, Ernest Caruthers (who is probably over 60 now) as a great weapons instructor, something I didn't really get into much as that instruction cost extra.

I attended classes daily, sometimes twice a day. At the time I didn’t have any transportation, so I either rode my bike or the bus to the classes. In retrospect, it was not so much about the karate as it was about self confidence. I built up my strength and stamina, as well as improved my push up skills (something that would be extremely valuable once I entered Basic). By the end of the summer, I was ready to take my green belt test and more importantly, ready to take whatever the world could throw at me. To this day I can still remember almost all of the first kata - something dramatically called 'the 17 deadly moves'.

It’s funny how odd moments mark the transition points in your life. For me it wasn’t signing the paper or getting on the bus but a more subtle moment. Toward the end of the summer, I had gone to a park in Bartlett to jog and work on my kata, alternating jogging and form work. I noticed a couple watching me. When I jogged near them, I recognized them as a couple of people I had gone to high school with. They asked what I was doing, and I explained that I was practicing a kata. They gave me that ‘poor guy, he’s gone off the deep end’ look. As they walked away, I realized that they were to go to Memphis State and probably get married, like most of my other friends, and I was really going into the Army. Right there, I realized I was following a very different path than my peers. I didn't feel bad about, it was just different.

Next – Enter the Dragon

Tales of a Cold Warrior - Beginning of Beginning

If you've read my Who Is This Guy? entry, then you know that I was active duty army from 1980-1984. After that enlistment, I was in the reserves (active and inactive) until 1986. This series is a description of what happened during that period as best as I can remember. It was a fun / scary / cool part of my life, and definitely left a mark on me. 

I joined the Army before I graduated from high school. There were several reasons for this. Mostly, I really was not ready for college. I had not scored outstanding on the standardized test and did not have notable grades, therefore I was not in line for scholarships. I had not settled on a ‘life direction’ at that point either. Conversely, I had become very active in Army JROTC in high school. Not really for the military aspect, though I was competent enough in those areas (marching, orders, etc.), but I had joined the rifle team and really enjoyed competitive shooting. I was not a natural talent for shooting. Instead, I became competitive by spending many an afternoon, (mostly) motionless, peering down a rifle barrel in the range in the school basement.

It is hard to imagine in today’s environment that our school had a rifle range. A report of a bunch of kids with guns at the school, shooting for hours, now invokes thoughts of an encounter like Columbine. The way rifle teams worked back then (as now) was that they are sponsored by the JROTC units at each school. While all schools had a ROTC element, not all had a range, but those that did had a rifle team. Much like the football team, there was a rotating schedule where we would pack up our guns and gear, and travel to other schools to compete. Our rifles were .22s, made specifically for competitive shooting, with heavy large barrels to negate the minute aiming point changes caused by the heat friction of a fired round. They also had thicker stocks, as well as rails for the attachment of various support accessories allowed by the rules. We were the top team in our area. I wish I could say that it was due to my superior skill, but that was not the case. We did have a ‘natural’ on our team, Scott Manus, who (when he showed up), on more than one occasion shot a perfect match.

There were two ROTC instructors. They were Maj. Rahm and a crusty old master sergeant whose name I do not recall. Maj Rahm, whom I ashamed to say I just discovered  passed on last year, by and large handled the rifle team, while the sergeant handled the drill team. Maj. Rahm shot on one of the Army’s pistol teams, so as an instructor he was invaluable. Oddly enough, he was not really that big an influence on my decision to go into the Army. What ROTC gave me was comfortableness with the military, such that the decision to commit to the next 4 to 6 years was logical and natural.

At that time, the Army was the best branch for someone that wanted a guaranteed career path at the time the enlistment contract was signed. The other services promised they would try to give you the training you indicated you were interested in, but the Army was the only on to guarantee it. So considered my options. I knew I didn't want to go into the combat arms, as I did not have confidence that I had the physical conditioning necessary. A failure at any point there (airborne training, ranger, SF) meant being thrown to to 'leg' troops, which even then, years after the end of Vietnam, had the reputation for societal dregs. Similarly, I was not interested in the more mundane administrative jobs (cook, mechanic), as those did not seem particularly challenging or interesting. During my initial evaluation the Army gave us an intelligence test. Since I scored relatively high on that, my recruiter told me about a new program the Army had established for a direct career path for Counter-Intelligence (CI) Agents.

Prior to then the career path for CI was an unsure thing. If you wanted to go into CI, you had to perform duties in a related field, then apply and compete with others for a training slot. The new path was to give ‘uncredentialed’ agents enough training so they could function as support personnel for full agents. Once the initial training was completed, the CI specialist would be assigned to tactical units where they could do little harm. After that assignment, they would, upon recommendation of their commander, be returned to training and awarded their credentials.

This was all of course all bullshit, but to my younger self brain, being a CI agent with a badge was about the coolest job ever.  It was true that credentialed agents at that time in non-tactical assignments did not wear a uniform, so after getting your badge, your days of wearing green were done.  Beyond the dress code though, the nuts and bolts of the job were decidedly unexciting, though occasionally entertaining, and the same in either environment. I will expand on this thought later. The germane point here is that the thought of being a badge toting spy catcher in the Army was a cool enough draw to pull me in.

Next: Lifting My Hand and Swearing