No amount of training would be complete without inspection after inspection. Everything was inspected from the individual person to their every belonging in minutiae. There was one black dude who never trifled with simple daily things like taking a shower, brushing his teeth, or other trivial matters of personal hygiene. It was decided, because of his disregard for his own person hygiene and the mutual harmony of his fellow barracks mates, we would take it upon ourselves to teach him a lesson in the matter of personal cleanliness. We were getting demerits as a company for his gross neglect. Our freedom was being limited by his filthiness. We had enough!
One evening we all grabbed him, and with much exertion and cursing on behalf of all involved, managed to cleanse him with scrub brush and soap. To his dismay he came clean. Later that same night, he decided to strike out against some "whit' ma'r fuker,” having forgotten that his black brothers had taken an even more active role in his scrubbing. That "whit' ma'r fuk" just happened to be me for some unknown reason. He probably picked me because my bunk was so close to his odoriferous lair. During the night he crept quietly with bull-like silence from his bunk, knife in hand, to avenge his cleansing with the sacrifice of "whitey.” As he stealthily approached my bunk with an arm poised to strike at any moment, I popped him on the head with all my might with a combat boot, the only weapon of defense that I had at hand. With the help of some of the others, we dragged him back to his bunk. Strangely enough nothing ever came of the incident, and he started to keep himself clean. He also seemed friendly toward me for which I have no explanation. Perhaps he just thought that he had had a terribly bad dream.
One of the series of classes that will probably remain embedded in my memory, as long as I live are the VD classes. I am sure that the Army spent a great deal of money and time in developing what went into the making of those films. Psychological studies have probably been done on their effectiveness in combating the contraction of Venereal Diseases. The psychology that was used was simply this: to gross out as many men as possible thereby scaring them into a short-lived state of celibacy while in basic training. But, from personal observation the scare tactics last only until a good-looking girl passed by. This series of films was preceded by a lengthy lecture. We were told that there would be limited discussion following the lectures. I never considered one person talking a discussion. Then came the big moment in the films. They were crammed full of rotten cocks, some half eaten away by VD, of one sort or another. There were lovely close-ups of chancres on the vaginal parts of faceless women, yellow fetid discharges from the vagina of a girl whose labia minora was seemingly eaten away, putrid looking peckers running pus from the urethra. And then we marched to lunch.
One day during the later phases of training we were returning from the rifle range. We were marching back from the rifle range, a march of some seven miles, give or take a little, but then who was counting? We were almost back to the main area of the post, passing by the Tear Gas training area. CS grenades were being demonstrated. Each man had to go into a room with his gas mask on and then take it off to see how the CS felt. CS is a very strong tear gas which has a thick white cloud associated with its release. I suppose the white cloud is to help the thrower keep out of the way of his grenade's contents. So, here we were marching, believe it or not, in decent military formation, past the CS area.
"Hup-whoop-heep-hore, HUP-WHOOP-HEEP-HORE, (singing, more or less, led by the sergeant) I don't know but I been told."
(The refrain by the platoon) "I don't know but I been told."
(Sergeant )"Delta Devils are mighty bold." (And so on.)
"Delta Devils are mighty bold."
Out of the blue a great gust of wind came along and drove a white cloud of CS down the hill, where it engulfed the formation.
"I don't know but I been, sniffle, sniffle,... Hold that formation, damn it. Hold that formation," the DI continued to yell.
The white cloud literally surrounded the formation and when the cloud passed, the only one left was our DI marching backwards down the road looking for, the not too bold, Delta Devils. He was still calling cadence. After the complete passage of the CS cloud, the formation finally reassembled, and we double timed it back to the barracks. That was one experience with “passing gas” that I will never forget.
Basic was moving along fairly smoothly then with only a few truly interesting events to perk things up. Our company managed to be in basic training for over five weeks without receiving our first pass. I was told that this was unusual. When the passes finally came through, only those who had qualified, their first time out on the rifle range could go. Thank goodness for a childhood of hunting and trapping and tracking. In spite of our un-heroic actions during our return from the rifle range, those of us who had qualified got our passes and headed for Columbia, South Carolina, for an overnight stay. By this point in our basic training we had decided that we really hated Fort Jackson and thought that if they ever gave the world an enema they would stick the tube in Fort Jackson.
We looked rather un-spiffy with our ill-fitting khakis and shaved heads as we headed for Columbia. Our DI required us to get a hair cut every week, so Stan and I had taken up the habit of shaving our heads. We did not have to waste time going to the barber and we saved seventy-five cents per week, big money when you were making what we were.
I had been to Columbia when I was a kid, but it seemed to have a totally different look and flavor as a private E-1 in the Army. As a child I had stayed with friends and had a good time. As a raw recruit (you're a recruit until you make it through basic) the atmosphere was totally different.
Columbia turned out to be the typical military “basic training” town. All of the respectable people were off the streets; all the respectable girls were locked up tight by their parents, or had local escorts. This was true of the down town area anyway. That was the only area one could see without money or a car. The only possibilities open to us were a few local hole-in-the-wall clubs (we were under age anyway), the movie theaters, a few local cat houses located in appropriately seedy hotels, and the last option was the USO. Believe it or not, there were still a few patriotic girls who were at the USO to entertain the "boys in uniform.” They were probably being paid to be there. Stan and I hung around the USO for a couple of hours playing pool and ping-pong. We kept looking and drooling at the few girls that were there, hoping that the promised dance would start. An organized dance would allow us to ask one of the girls to dance; hopeful of getting a chance to be close to a girl for a change. Smelling someone that did not smell like a stinky “Basic Training” recruit The dance never did materialize.
We bummed around town just looking and talking for a number of hours. It was still safe to walk the streets of a fairly large city in those days. We finally got tired and decided to check into a hotel somewhere in the downtown area of Columbia. Unbeknownst to us, the hotel we picked was one of the active cat houses in the area. It took forever to get to sleep with all the commotion in the hallways. It did feel good to sleep in a bed that I knew that I would not have to make in the morning.
Basic was fast drawing to a close. Our unit had some esprit de corps by then; we actually looked pretty good when we marched somewhere. About the only thing of interest that we had left to do was BIVOUAC. We packed our field gear and fell into formation in front of the barracks. After role call we started our march to the BIVOUAC area some ten miles out from the main base. It was the end of October and the weather had turned unseasonably cold. We reached the BIVOUAC area and set up our tents. Each of us had a partner chosen by gosh knows who. We had marched through the sandy soil and pine trees of the rolling hills of South Carolina for what seemed like hours singing out cadence in response to the DI. The wind had picked up and the air had a definite chill, as if it were going to snow. The pine trees even looked as if they were pissed at the turn in the weather; most of the men echoed a similar sentiment.
Each partner carried one half of a pup tent which conveniently buttoned to his partner's other half. One half had buttons and the other half had button holes. I always seemed to get some mental defective as a partner, and this BIVOUAC was no exception. Each evening my partner was the first to enter our comfy little abode. I handed him his weapon and then I handed him mine. In the morning I would go out first and he would hand our weapons out to me one at a time. For some reason every morning my weapon turned up being a little bit rusty. I had to spend extra time cleaning and getting it ready for inspection. On what turned out to be the last evening of our BIVOUAC, I went through the usual ritual of handing the weapons into my partner, Jack. During the night it snowed. In the morning when we were getting our rifles out my partner could not find mine. For some reason Jack had been placing my rifle on the outside of his sleeping bag next to the tent wall and his rifle between us. My rifle apparently rolled outside the tent each night and into the little drainage ditch that we had dug around the tent. My rifle ended up being covered with snow. Needless to say, that morning my rifle was literally red with rust. Those M-14s must have had the poorest bluing in the world. I later had to spend half a day just getting the weapon ready to be turned in (after passing inspection, of course).
Due to the snow, the upper echelon made a decision to terminate the BIVOUAC. We were short on warm clothing anyway. They even decided to truck us back, believe it or not, to the company area. We were crowded onto duce-and-a-half stake body trucks for the trip back and took off down the snowy roads. It would feel good to be in a building for a change even if it was an old un-insulated barracks.
Later that evening we heard that there had been an accident during the troop movement. One of the trucks had skidded out of control while going around a corner. The rails, on one of the sides, in the back of the truck had broken, causing men to be strewn across the road. Fortunately there were no serious injuries other than a few broken bones. Some of our companions would not be graduating with the rest of the Delta Devils.
Finally the big day arrived and we headed for the parade field for graduation. Those of us who had joined the Army, of our own free will, had an extra sense of pride that day. At least I did. I had finished my first step in attaining my goal of becoming an Army Aviator.
As the band marched onto the parade field and Old Glory was paraded around, I could feel the pride welling up inside me, the feeling of belonging and being part of our country. Now that it was over, I could enjoy it, in retrospect, even though I would not care to repeat it. What I did not know at that time was that the worst was yet to come. I did learn that the pride I felt in accomplishing this part of my training would continue to increase with each achievement.
As I left Fort Jackson on two weeks leave before I would have to report for flight school at Fort Wolters, Texas, I had thus far attained the rank of Private E-2, and the grand salary of about ninety-six dollars per month. As I left South Carolina I felt the worst was indeed over. Flight school would be rough but at least I would have some freedom. I could even take my car along to Texas although I was not sure how useful it would prove to be, time and only time would tell that story.
The South Revisited
I had an enjoyable time at home with my parents. My brother was away at college and my sister was married. Stan and I spent some time together doing a few things and visiting friends, before we got together and loaded our gear into my car. My car at that time was a 1960 Hillman Minx convertible. The Hillman was not a prestigious car, but I was totally satisfied with it and its fuel economy. I have always been cheap about spending money on gas. Dad had bought the Hillman for me four or five months after I had gotten my drivers license. It came in handy when I had to drive to work in Hershey from our home in Paxtang. It was the middle of November when we left Pennsylvania. The trees were turning and the air was brisk, as we bid our farewells to our parents and friends starting out toward Texas. Every trip was an adventure to me going some place I had never been, doing something I had never done. It was all very exciting. I still feel that way about traveling.
Our destination on this trip was Fort Wolters, Texas, located just east of Mineral Wells, a small town approximately ninety miles southwest of Fort Worth, Texas. We had allowed ourselves three days travel time to go the fifteen-hundred odd miles between Paxtang, Pennsylvania and Mineral Wells, Texas.
We headed west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, both of us in good humor as we chatted about the prospects of flight school and our future military careers.
Within a matter of a few quick hours we had traversed Pennsylvania and entered Ohio, continuing down the Ohio turnpike.
In Ohio, at that time, Howard Johnson's and Gulf Oil ran all the facilities on the turnpike. We thought that we would stop at a Ho Jo's and have a late lunch. We ate a leisurely lunch and after finishing both of us got the silly urge to buy a toy, suction cup type, dart guns from a vending machine at the doorway. Back in the car again, we merged back onto the highway and started to cruise west. As we were driving along, we came up slowly on an old couple doing around forty to forty-five miles per hour. I had an idea! We took the rubber tipped, suction cup darts from our toy dart guns, licked them and stuck them to our foreheads like some kind of stiff, strange looking antennae. Then we slouched down in our seats so that just our heads were visible above the edge of the doors. Gradually I eased my car up beside the old couple, then and we both stared casually across at the oldsters with our eyes held wide open. At first they just responded with a similar casual glance and smile, then a concentrated double-take. The old fellow looked again, then to his wife, then again at us with a shocked look etching its way across his wrinkled face. Suddenly their car rocketed away, rapidly accelerating out of sight, never to be seen again by either of us.
We continued our trip uneventfully stopping over one night at a hotel somewhere in Kentucky. There had been no news bulletins about an old couple having seen creatures from somewhere driving down the turnpike in a small green convertible car.
Stan was a very fair skinned person with blonde hair. From the few minutes that we had left the darts stuck to our heads, the rubber suction cups had left two nice round red spots on Stan's forehead, which lasted almost two weeks.
We arrived in Mineral Wells a day early and decided to enjoy our last full day of freedom before checking into our company at Fort Wolters.
We checked out the town for the possibility of nabbing some available chicks. As it had been in Columbia so it was in Mineral Wells. It seems that the townies can sense when you are in the military. It could have been our funny haircuts, but people who live in service towns just seem to be more cautious.
At least we were not limited by our shoe leather; we did have wheels. It seemed that the hottest spot in town for the younger generation was the Dairy Queen. Apparently the thing to do in southwest central Texas was to cruise around. My reliable old Hillman was not the classiest or fastest vehicle in the world; therefore it did not impress any of the local girls.
At that time the old adage about everything being bigger in Texas held truer than ever. Everyone could be seen in their big Chevys and Fords, which made my little car seem even more miniature. In reality I believe what impressed the girls least about us was our appearance-the still short hair. Even by the standards of the sixties our hair was SHORT.
After stuffing ourselves with milk shakes and burgers and other various manner of junk food at the Dairy Queen, we set out for the Mineral Wells Hotel.
The Mineral Wells Hotel was by far the largest building in town. It dwarfed everything else. Our immediate plan was to check out the hotel and see if there was any kind of action going on there. Any establishment of that size would have more going on than any other place in town, right? The hotel seemed as dead as everything else in Mineral Wells. We returned to our room, after walking around the hotel checking out all the empty corridors, and watched TV until the stations went off the air at midnight.
For some reason, probably the certainty that our leave was almost over, I was unable to sleep. I walked the long hallways exploring the entirety of this huge building well into the early morning hours savoring my last hours of freedom.
What's a WOC? - Something you throw at a Wabbit.
Check in time at Fort Wolters
We had slept in for a little while that morning, after having spent most of the night wandering the corridors of the hotel. We had become slightly familiar with the place and discovered some of its history on a placemat while eating the previous evening.
Mineral Wells had at one time been a very comfortable and popular resort town known for its mineral baths, most of which were found in the lower regions of the hotel. Its popularity had dwindled some years previous, and business was very slow. I'm sure Fort Wolters
We woke up late, 0930 hours, washed and then went to the hotel restaurant. After breakfast we ambled back to our room, picked up our belongings, loaded them into the car and headed east toward the gates of Fort Wolters
We went through the main gate and drove around to familiarize ourselves with the lay of the post. We drove by the barracks area, prolonging the inevitable. The barracks were three story block structures which were a far cry from what we had lived in at Fort Jackson
Continuing around the post, we found the barracks where we were to report. In a burst of great creative thinking I decided to go by the Provost and register my car before returning to the barracks to report in. We got out of the Hillman, grabbed some of our gear and went into the barracks. We saw the First Sergeant's office identified by a sign which read "First Sergeant Demboski.” Demboski was a slim man, probably in his late thirties or mid forties. His face was rather lean, boney, and angular looking, as if a kind word never passed from the portal of his mouth. His hair was coal black and his eyes were mean and narrow. We would find out later that his appearance was not deceiving.
As WOCs, would attain the rank and pay grade of Sergeant E-5. Buck sergeant. At that time it was an enormous two hundred dollars per month, a far cry from the ninety-six dollars of an E-2 Private after graduating from Basic Training.
"Private Rollason reporting for duty as ordered, Sergeant." Flight School
Our first few hours, subsequent to signing in, were spent in getting room assignments, picking up flight school patches and WOC brass for our uniforms, and getting some orientation. Classes would begin almost immediately, but even before the classes began the harassment was beginning.
We no longer had platoon sergeants to yell and pester us. Instead we had TAC Officers that were far more fearsome to us. The TAC Officers had the power to have us thrown out of flight school for almost any reason. Their entire purpose seemed to be to harass us twenty-four hours a day. I believed most of these guys were married; at least they had wedding rings on their left ring finger. When did they ever see their families? In the brief moments when we were not being harassed we had to sew on patches and have our fatigues pressed and ready to go. Every day we had to have on fatigues that were pressed and starched.
One of the TAC Officers was a CW-3 (Chief Warrant Officer Third grade, the highest Warrant rank is a CW-4), Chief Warrant Officer Hill. He was kind of short, a stocky-built man with a calm easy-going manner and face. His face was almost serene in appearance. He was in his mid forties like the Top Sergeant, but without the apparent hardness. Our other TAC Officer was a short muscular CW-2 in his mid to late twenties. He was the proverbial prick with a capital "P.”
Our training would be divided into two phases there at helicopter primary flight school. The initial phase of our primary training would be taken with a civilian, contract, company and civilian flight instructors using military aircraft. Each day would also be divided into two phases. One week my group would have classes in the morning and fly in the afternoon and alternate weeks we would fly in the morning and have classes in the afternoon. This system was designed to give us different air temperatures and flying conditions to work with during our training.
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