Chapter 13
Fort Stewart Georgia, quite possibly the flattest piece of terrain in the whole state of Georgia, a swampy, pine forested, mosquito infested, alligator crawling, hot hellhole in the world, at least my world at the time. There are many Vietnam vets I’m sure who would disagree with me, but take it from me. The place sucks, and the surrounding area ain’t much better. I am from Georgia, and I would be one of the first in line to give the damn place back to anyone who wants it.
The local civilian population hated GIs with a passion, even as they drew their living from the base. When it had been reverted into a minor training ground in the early 1970′s the near by town of Hinesville nearly dried up and blew away. Only the arrival of the 24th Infantry Division and the subsequent build up of the post had kept them alive. Perhaps this dependency on the soldiers was their basis, but at any rate, when I was there in the early 80′s, they hated GIs. And, due to their actions against us, we felt pretty much the same way.
I was assigned to Ft Stewart for my first assignment straight out of basic and AIT, a brand new Cavalry Scout, eager and green as summer grass. I landed in Bravo Troop of 2/9 Cavalry, 24th Infantry Division, assigned as a driver on the platoon leaders vehicle. I was unaware that this assignment would affect the rest of my time in the Army, but it did indeed. Every assignment after that, I some how managed to end up working in close proximity with the platoon leader, either as his driver, gunner or after making NCO, his vehicle commander. Perhaps it was the fact I’d learned the operation of the multi-channel radios, or to navigate with very little direction, handle the radio traffic while he was occupied with various functions required of a Scout platoon leader, or the like, but I think mostly it was because with all the stress of the job, I provided comic relief.
My first field problem came a few weeks after I joined the unit, I’d met my platoon and started adjusting in, spent plenty of time in the motor pool, learning my vehicle, the dreaded M113 personnel beater, and being instructed on what was required of me by my track commander, and filled in on platoon gossip by the soon to be gone former driver. I was required to sign for the hand tools on the vehicle, and there was much slight of hand in the process I discovered later as the tools I’d seen when I signed for them disappeared the next time I looked in the tool bag. Thus did I learn one of the first lessons of many I would learn about the Army, if you sign for it, don’t let it leave your sight.
Having announced the field exercise, our platoon sergeant, SSG Juan D Rodriguez, a fat Hispanic man, unofficially known to us as King Rat, sent us to the motor pool to prepare our vehicles. King Rat gave us the usual threats about breaking down in the field, and the punishment we could expect should we do so, and he departed. I had no idea where to even begin, but the former driver stepped in and began to give instructions. “Go to commo and get some batteries for the Prick 77, see the POL sergeant and get some tubes of grease,…” he droned on, then added, “I’ll be here when you get back.”
I must have spent at least an hour trying to find where to go and who to ask, getting the proper forms, and then lugging all the stuff back to the track. When I got back, he was sound asleep on the bench in the vehicle. He awoke long enough to show me where to stow all the stuff, then as he rolled back over told me to make sure to wake him up when it was time to go up for formation. I stepped back out of the vehicle and opened the engine compartment and began to look it over. As I pondered over the various components of the engine someone came up behind me and leaned over looking into the compartment with me. “Something wrong?” He asked. Without looking up, I replied, “no, just trying to figure the damn thing out.” “I’m Lieutenant Newbill, the platoon leader.” He said, “you must be my new driver.” I damn near broke my back snapping to attention and saluting him, my experience with officers was nil, the only one’s I had any experience with prior to this had been a brief conversation with one in basic, and the army dentist I’d met. “Relax, I’m not a dragon” he said, “what do they tell you guys in basic about us anyway, you all come out acting like we’re gonna eat you or something.” He went on talking and asking me questions about everything from where I was from to training I had, all the while looking over the vehicle and equipment. He told me a little about himself, and by the time he left, I felt a lot better, but still nervous about being in close proximity to an officer.
The next several days we prepared for the field, and finally, the big day, at least for me, came, we loaded up our vehicles, drew our weapons, and rolled out the gate towards the training area. The dust hung in the air as we followed the first section of the platoon down the tank trail, which to a southern boy like me, was merely another dirt road. As we got further from the motorpool, we began to encounter large dips and holes in the road, all full of muddy brown water. The vehicle commander instructed me to drive around the edge of them, and for my sake, don’t splash him. Behind us, the rest of the platoon snaked out in a staggered formation. I kept creeping up on the vehicle ahead of us, and kept getting yelled at for doing so. “Damn it private, keep a hundred yard interval between us and them.”
We crossed several paved roads, and I noticed as we drove along that the trees at each intersection had numbers painted on them with white paint. Later I learned that due to the flat terrain of Ft Stewart, there wasn’t enough difference in the terrain to properly navigate by and to prevent people from getting too lost, they had marked the grid coordinates on the trees. After what seemed hours, we finally got to a pre-determined location, and stopped. It looked like a large pasture to me, but I was informed that it was a LZ, this I later learned was a Landing Zone. I jumped out of the vehicle and with the assistance of the vehicle commander, began to check the vehicle over, checking the bolts on the driveshafts in the engine compartment, greasing each road wheel on the tracks, and in general seeing what had shaken loose.
“King Rat wants us all up at his vehicle.” Someone called out to us, “Formation now.”
“Fuckin King Rat, what the hell does he want?” someone else gripped.
We grabbed our combat gear, helmets, equipment belts with canteens, magazine pouches, etc, and our weapons and ambled up to the platoon sergeants tank. Our platoon consisted of 4 M60 tanks, 2 Improved TOW Missile tracks, and 3 M113 personnel carriers. The platoon leader rode on one of the M113s and the platoon sergeant rode on one of the tanks. Each platoon was divided into two sections, consisting of a tank, an ITV, and a M113, with the platoon leader attaching himself to which ever section he deemed necessary at the time.
As we neared the tank, we could see King Rat standing on the deck of the tank, standing with one foot propped up as if to look like George Patton. His dark eyes followed our progress and when everyone was there, he launched into his speech without preamble.
“Listen up fuckers, I gonna say this shit one damn time, one damn time only.” He glared over us to make sure we understood. “Ever damn time we go to the field, some body gat hurt, an ever time, I got to write the damn reports, so. You get your ass hurt, I gonna give you Article 15 and extra duty damnit.”
I looked around to see the effect of his threats on my fellow soldiers, no one seemed fazed or impressed by it, most just looked bored.
“Now bitches, we gone to have a good field problem, and we gone do what we came to do.”
He went on and on, and with each new pronouncement, he seemed to become more and more agitated, in fact he began to pace up and down the length of the tank, glaring at each of us, and occasionally singling out someone for specific threats.
“Sgt Meehan, you got the newbies? You keep them troops squared away. Anyone of them get hurt, I gonna Article 15 their ass and yours.”
“Sgt Hester, keep that pendejo driver of yours from getting into poison ivy, if you don’t want no Article 15.”
Faster and faster he paced the tank, louder and louder he became, each new threat of punishment was empathized with waving of his arms, at last, he gave us a final threat.
“Remember Troops, fuck up, get hurt, Article 15, and at least two weeks Extra Duty, I promise you that, try me.”
He turned and immediately stepped off the tank into thin air.
“GAD DAMMIT!” he yelled as he fell.
As we watched in delighted silence as he landed hard on the packed red clay, wincing as he thudded onto the ground and rolled over clutching his ankle and swearing in a mix of English and Spanish. King Rat had broken his ankle. It was poetic justice in its finest form. The rest of the field problem went beautifully, we newbies learned the first lessons of our craft, Sgt Meehan took over as acting platoon sergeant, and we got dirty, yelled at, teased, insect bitten, and in general had a great time, and to everyone’s delight, no one, not one single one of us got hurt, in fact, for the entire Squadron, the only injury was King Rat, who spent the next 6 weeks in a cast.
The only threat I remember hearing the rest of the field problem was from Sgt Meehan who threatened to Article 15 anyone who had soap in their rucksack, and we all knew he was crazy, so we didn’t take it serious anyway.
Needless to say, it was the end of the safety speeches, and the mother of many jokes and stories that circulated the Troop. In fact it was nearly a year later that it was eclipsed, and that was when King Rat was escorted into the orderly room in cuffs and chains, but that’s another story.
