I WAS FORTUNATE to be assigned to a company in Advanced Infantry Training occupying newly constructed barracks at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. They were modern brick buildings with separate rooms for each squad of four trainees. It was a far cry from the old wooden barracks that we occupied in Basic Combat Training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, with thirty men sleeping on bunk beds in an open bay area. 

The other members of my squad included a graduate of Harvard with a degree in economics (I can't remember his name), Bill Downey, who had been with me on the train to Georgia, and Mort Beech, a college boy from Texas who belonged to one of those fraternities that only allowed Cadillacs to be parked in spaces visible to the public (especially coeds). Obviously, we weren't typical of the recruits that you'd find in the Army except during a time when the draft boards were scouring the countryside aggressively.

I quickly learned to play bridge in their company. Bill's parents were both Grand Masters of the game and he had been weaned on it. Our squad mates had played it extensively in their college fraternities. I, on the other hand, had been raised on gin gummy and poker. Bill taught me the rules. The Harvard grad taught me the odds. Mort taught me to cheat.

My first lesson in cheating came during a hand when Mort and I were partners sitting on the floor across from each other while Bill and Mr Ivy League sat on opposite ends of a bunk. They obviously held the better cards and looking for an appropriate contract while Mort and I sat passively waiting. As it became apparent that spades would be the trump suit, I felt a gentle tap on my leg. Looking down, I saw Mort's bare foot with three cards, all hearts, between his toes. I replaced them with three spades that I was holding. Thus, Mort had voided himself in hearts and on the first trick I led a heart and he was able to trump it. Our opponents grumbled at the bad distribution of cards that cost them their contract and awarded us the points. Bad card distribution plagued them the rest of the night and they never figured it out. I learned that the child of Grand Masters and Ivy Leaguers weren't as smart as they thought they were.

We played so much bridge during that eight weeks of AIT that we wore the spots off a deck of Kem plastic playing cards. Sergeants would walk over when we took breaks between classes to see if we were playing something more familiar to them, such as poker. They always wandered off mumbling when they found us playing bridge.

Not that it was all fun and games in AIT. We worked hard. We practiced the skills that we had learned in Basic until we mastered them. We were retested on our marksmanship with the M-14, and practiced close combat techniques until they became reflexive. We weren't taught how to fight. We were taught how to kill. There's no time for fighting on the battlefield.

There were other weapons to master. The M-60 machine gun was my favorite. We began learning how to fire a burst of six rounds and keep them all inside a one inch square target located 25 meters away. I sprayed the target until a sergeant got down beside me and whispered a secret. “The gun's trying to walk away from you, son,” he said.

He was right. It had a massive device in the stock to absorb the recoil that I had to control by holding the weapon tighter against my shoulder. It worked. On the next attempt, I placed all six rounds inside the one inch square target.

I went on to qualify as a sharpshooter on the M-60 and I am upset about it to this day. I should have fired “expert.” However, the temperature rose above training limits that day and we had to stop firing until it fell back. We played a few rubbers of bridge while we waited. When it did, heat rose in waves from the ground obscuring the targets at 800 meters that I had to hit to qualify as an expert. 

I guess it's a “guy-thing,” the thrill of shooting high-powered weapons. That thrill was ramped up a notch when we trained on the M-79 40mm grenade launcher and the 3.5 inch rocket launcher commonly known as the bazooka. I still get goose bumps at the memory. 

Read Jack's novel, Rebels on the Mountain, the tale of Nick Andrews, an Army spy, who has Fidel Castro in his sights but no orders to pull the trigger. The mafia as well as the American business community in Cuba will pay a fortune for Castro's assassination, but Nick has his career to consider, his friends to protect, and a romance to sort out in the chaos of a revolution.   

NOT EVERYONE GRADUATED from Basic Combat Training. At least, they didn't on their first try. A few were discharged for medical or “other than honorable reasons.” The stresses of the program of instruction proved too great for them. 

There were some few who were “recycled” to another BCT company just starting to try again. A few were reassigned to the “bolo” company – the men who lacked any athletic ability.

Our graduation was celebrated with a parade. We stood at parade rest with two other training companies and listened to a speech by the base commanding general and then “passed in review” while the band played “Hey Look Me Over.” That brought back an interesting memory.

“Hey Look Me Over” was written by Carolyn Leigh and Cy Coleman for the musical “Wildcat.” I saw “Wildcat” in Philadelphia starring Lucille Ball when I was in pre-law. We had gone to debate health care (yes, we were debating nationalized health care way back in 1960) at Temple University. (I was against it and won, arguing that we needed a plan to fix the private insurance system but never allow the federal government to take it over – but that's another story.) We met Ms Ball after the show and had a delightful evening with her. Unfortunately, “Wildcat” closed after only 171 performances on Broadway. However, it left us with the perfect song to accompany a military inspection.

The company commander was authorized to promote the top one third of the graduates to Private E-2. I believe at that time, it earned us a $7/month raise in pay – from $89/month to $96. Don't laugh. What did we have to spend it on. Every need was provided for by the Army – food, shelter, clothing, medical care. We only spent our money on beer and cigarettes. Yes, soldiers were allowed to drink beer at the Post Exchange (PX) even though they were under age. 

The PX sold only “green” beer – a variety that was canned before fermentation was completed. It only contained half the alcohol of regular beer. Today, we call it “lite” beer. Off post, it was called “watered down” and a bartender could be hurt if caught adding water to the drinks at a bar.

Of course, none of this was any problem for me. I was already past twenty-one. Well, it did create one problem when we received our first passes to spend a day in Augusta, Georgia. All the other guys wanted me to buy booze for them. That's just the kind of trouble I didn't need. Ultimately, I bought a pint of rum and promised to share it when we got back to the barracks. Somehow it was “lost” before we reached there.

In any event, we marched to a post theater following our graduation parade and Captain Sevcik, our company commanding officer, congratulated us, then began reading the role call of those who had been promoted. When he came to “Durish, John T.” he paused, looked up confused and asked, “Who the hell's Durish?”

It made me happy. I had stayed under his radar for eight weeks.

I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED about the fortitude of men who could march shoulder-to-shoulder into the face of withering fire without breaking ranks. The paintings of massed troops facing modern weapons, especially during the American Civil War and World War I, always sends a shiver up my spine. How could they do that? 

Early guns were infamously inaccurate and soldiers fired in volleys. Thousands of muskets fired simultaneously might hit a few targets if they were close enough. A person could hope to survive the misguided hail of bullets. As holes appeared in lines they were quickly filled with replacements from behind. The greatest danger came when the two armies met and clashed, and the men fought with bayonets affixed to the ends of their weapons much as ancient armies fought with spears. Only massed, disciplined forces could prevail.

As rifles replaced muskets and the minié ball replaced round shot, the odds of being killed or wounded by a shot fired at a distance increased exponentially. Still, generals sent massed formations into battle and I believe that the fortitude of these soldiers must have been raised to heroic proportions. How could they march shoulder-to-shoulder when their comrades were falling all around them? Yes, there was the fear that their own officers would kill them if they turned and ran. But, I learned there was an even greater fear that kept them rooted to the ranks. The fear of abandoning their buddies.

Even though individual riflemen in modern Armies fight from pits and behind cover, the Army must continue to instill that sense of comradery that is needed to maintain the cohesiveness of every fighting unit. Almost everything we did in Basic Combat Training contributed to that bond.

For example, every recruit was issued one half of a tent – known as a “shelter-half.” Two could button their halves together to make one complete tent. Anyone who didn't have a buddy could set up their tent half alone to make a lean-to. It was serviceable but not quite as good as a complete tent. In fact, everything we did in training was better with a buddy. The lesson wasn't lost on us. We soon figured out that we had a better chance of surviving the battlefield if we took care of our buddies and they took care of us.

There were some who just couldn't get along with the other recruits. They tried to survive training on their own. It was a strategy for failure. No one had to tell us. It became more and more apparent with every passing day of Basic Combat Training.

A forced march was the perfect demonstration of this concept. Hiking in formation while carrying forty or fifty pounds of gear in a rucksack on your back and a nineteen pound rifle slung over your shoulder gets pretty tiring after the first couple of miles, especially when you're walking on soft dirt. Army training centers had dirt roads that paralleled paved ones. These were used by tracked vehicles. The treads on tanks and armored personnel carriers would quickly tear up macadam roads, so those types of vehicles drove the dirt roads called tank trails. That's were we hiked, on the tank trails.

Recruits might survive twenty such forced marches without a problem, only to fall out of ranks unpredictably on the twenty-first. They weren't necessary sick or suffering, it just happened. When it did, their buddies would strip off their gear and distribute among themselves. Then, one man on either side of the ailing recruit would grab an arm and prop him up until he recovered or they reached the end of the march. Those who just couldn't get along with the other recruits often found themselves abandoned along the side of the road waiting for a ride back. Sure, it was easier than marching all the way but a warning of what might happen on the battlefield unless they learned to go along and get along.  

CLOSE COMBAT TRAINING during Basic Combat Training was limited. No one could even hope to learn to defend themselves on a battlefield without a rifle in just eight weeks, even if they practiced nothing else during that time. However, we were given a “taste” of it. 

The truth is that those of us who went on to Advanced Infantry Training didn't receive enough either. Even with six months additional close combat training during Infantry Officer Candidate School, I felt I needed still more.

Hand-to-hand training during the era of the Vietnam War focused primarily on defense and poking your enemy in the eyes or the groin. Don't laugh. It's a good beginning. I passed the most basic advice onto my youngest son when he was being tormented by a bully who loved to shove others. I taught him to simply step back with one foot and turn his body away when the young devil ran at him. I was fortunate to see the fruits of this labor when the attack came while I happened to be standing nearby. My son stepped back as instructed and the bully fell on his face. He looked around confusedly for a moment and then went searching for someone else to shove.

We practiced hand-to-hand combat training in a sawdust pit surrounded by a shin high wall of sandbags. A wooden platform in the center served as a podium for the instructor. We paired off with not attempt to match us by height or weight. At one hundred seventy-five pounds, I was rarely outclassed in the match up on weight. However, at only five feet, eight inches, I often had to spar with men who had a greater reach. Fortunately, my father had been a professional prize fighter in his younger days and I knew how to duck and weave effectively. No, he hadn't taught me to fight. I learned while dodging his blows. My father used his fists for punishment.

Bayonet training was an entirely different experience. Communist countries manufactured infantry rifles with bayonets permanently affixed to the barrel. They folded back when not needed for close combat. They had dull edges to prevent soldiers from hurting themselves when the bayonet was folded back. Thus, they were only useful for stabbing someone. Our bayonets had edges that we could slash with as well as stab. I have never seen a knife as sharp as a bayonet. It is seriously sharp.

Fortunately, we practiced with our bayonets safely encased in scabbards during Basic Combat Training (that would change in more advanced classes). The Army didn't want anyone complaining to mommy who would likely sic their congressman on us. But, trainers demonstrated with bare blades. I once saw one pass through the hand of a sergeant during a demonstration. It seemed to pass through flesh and bone as easily as it passed through air.

Soldiers also use their rifles as clubs. We were taught the vertical and horizontal butt strokes. (I'll leave that to your imagination.) Practicing these techniques with rifles could result in serious injury or death. Thus, the Army substituted pugil sticks. You may have seen these on game shows, like American Gladiator. They have thick wooden shafts, about the length of a rifle with a bayonet, and heavy padding on both ends. There's another pad in the center between the handholds. We were dressed in helmets and gauntlets and turned loose on each other. It was fun for those of us who mastered the necessary skills. Not so much for anyone else.

Our instructors impressed us with their skills in every manner of close combat. Indeed, as I have noted elsewhere in this series of postings about Basic Combat Training, I was impressed by the professionalism of every one of them. However, it still makes me smile to remember that every one of them began every class with the exhortation to pay careful attention - “This is the most important training that you will receive. This is the class that will keep you alive in combat.”

Of course, they were all important. Although, after one day of close combat training, we asked our platoon sergeant what he thought. He smiled as though remembering some distant memory and then advised, “If you run out of ammunition, go find more ammunition.”

I WAS THE youngest child of youngest children. Not just by a few years. My father was born at the beginning of World War I when his brother was old enough to join the Army and travel to France with General Pershing. My mother's oldest sister was a teacher in elementary school when both of my parents attended it. As a result, I was born during World War II and had cousins who fought in that war. Yes, I was really the baby of the family. 

It seemed that I could never get away from being the youngest in any setting. I started school in Baltimore at the start of the January semester. When our family moved to the county where everyone started in September, my brother was moved back a half year and I was moved ahead. As a result, I graduated when I had just turned seventeen. I graduated from law school at twenty-two and tripped on my gown as I crossed the stage to get my diploma. It seemed symbolic inasmuch as I was the baby of the graduating class.

Thus, it came as a bit of a shock to find myself cast as “the old man” at twenty-three surrounded in the Army by teenaged recruits. OMG, I was even older than our assistant platoon leader, Staff Sergeant Gore, and the company executive officer, Lieutenant Archembalt! I suspect that this may explain why my perspective of the Army and the War in Vietnam is significantly different from others you may have been exposed to.

Two experiences illustrate the difference.

One afternoon, we were told to drag our footlockers to the end of the barracks and seat ourselves around the closed circuit television. When it flickered on, we found ourselves face-to-face with a legend, one of the new Army Special Forces soldiers – a Green Beret – who proceeded to lecture us on “counterinsurgency.”

I found the lecture to be interesting and well-presented. The Green Beret either understood his subject matter well or was reciting a very well-written script. When it ended, a young recruit seated next to me asked, “Where is Vietnam?”

I took him outside and began drawing maps in the sand with a stick. The rest of the platoon, including our sergeants, joined us. It was but the first of many impromptu lessons I would host to help these young soldiers grasp the conflict we were preparing for.

My second awaking as an “old man” was brought to me by the platoon sergeant.

Note: You may want to stop reading this posting here if you are easily offended by crude language.

Soldier's are famous for the use of the word “fuck.” However, this young man took its use to a whole new level, one that even worried a hardened sergeant. He created neologisms – new words – by inserting “fuck” as an additional syllable with existing words: e.g., “unbe-fucking-lievable,” an emphatic form of “unbelievable.” He didn't do it occasionally. He strung whole sentences together using these, almost constantly.

One day Master Sergeant Dunn cornered me and asked what I thought of the young man's behavior and what he should do about it. Even before I could frame an answer, I was struck by the thought that he was asking me because of my age. He wouldn't ask any other recruit for such advice.

It was at this moment that I fully realized that I was the “old man.” The thought made my head swim inasmuch as it was a totally new experience for me. I was used to being accepted in the company of men much older than myself. I even was used to commanding others older than myself while sailing. Still, it was a complete reversal of roles to be the older man. It prepared me well for my role now that I am generally the older man in almost any group.

WE ALL HEARD the axiom many times: “There's a right way, a wrong way, and the Army way.” Well, I added one: “Jack's way.” The Army's first encounter with “Jack's way” came in Basic Combat Training. 

One day I found my name on the duty roster listed as “Fire Guard.” “What's that,” I asked another recruit standing nearby.

“You stoke the furnaces,” he informed me.

“What furnaces?” I had seen air ducts branching throughout the barracks but never felt anything coming out of them.

He shrugged. “The sergeant will tell you if they need you.”

The sergeant on duty needed me in the middle of the night. He sent the company runner to get me at “Oh dark thirty.” I dressed hastily and reported to the orderly room.

“What furnaces?” I asked him.

“Go find 'em,” he grumbled and headed back to his own bunk. “There's a door to the furnace room in the side of each building.”

There was! There really was. I was convinced that they must only appear magically in moonlight. I hadn't noticed them before.

I crept inside and felt around for a light switch. I found one and flipped it. A motor started running. No light. I flipped it off and felt around until I found another. This one turned on a light revealing two iron monsters waiting for me. It took me a while to discern their purposes. One was a furnace and the other a hot water heater, both coal-fired.

Oh, that's why there was a pile of coal beside each building. 

Now, here's where I should have gone back and asked the sergeant to instruct me in the “Army way.” However, the last I saw of him didn't encourage me to go back and disturb his rest. As for the right way and the wrong way, I didn't have a clue. So, I went with Jack's way.

Examining the one that looked most like a furnace (it didn't have a lot of plumbing associated with it) I found two iron doors. Opening the top one revealed a grate full of ashes and three small lumps of coal glowing anemically. Behind the bottom door, I found ashes that had been accumulating since World War II. A lever on the outside of the furnace shifted the grating and I shifted it until all the ashes on top fell into the bottom. I then shoveled the whole pile of ashes into a likely looking ashcan nearby. 

Luckily, I had some experience lighting a coal fire. I carried in enough coal to cover the grate and got it burning. I then adjusted the flues to make sure the fire got plenty of air.

I then turned my attention to the motor that I had accidentally started when I first entered the furnace room. It was supposed to be driving the fan that forced hot air from the furnace into the barracks. However, the fan belt was hanging on a nail where it wasn't doing any good. So, I connected the fan belt and turned on the motor.  

I then turned my attention to the hot water heater and stoked a good fire after cleaning it thoroughly.

I repeated my ministrations in the remaining furnace rooms and went back to bed, satisfied with a job well done.

It was still dark when I next awoke to a lot of murmuring and the heavy tread of the duty sergeant stalking down the line of bunks looking for me. “Get dressed and follow me,” he ordered.

I only had time to throw on my pants and boots before he disappeared out the front door. As I ran after him, I began to notice that everyone was awake and the place felt like a sauna.

The sergeant reached the furnace room door and threw it open. “Christ!” he shouted.

I slid to a stop beside him and peered inside. We didn't need to turn on the light. The room was illuminated by the glow of the furnace and hot water heater.

“Quick!” he ordered. “Open all the hot water faucets in the latrines.”

I turned and ran, just to get out of his reach if for no other reason. I ran from building to building opening all the hot water faucets, and steam poured out of them.

I then found the sergeant readjusting the thermostats in all the buildings. Apparently, they had all been cranked up to their maximum settings in hopes of warming up the places. However, without the fan belts connected, there was nothing to drive the hot air to where it was needed. Not until, of course, I “fixed” them all.

I learned a valuable lesson that night. Actually, the lesson came later. I was never asked to stoke the furnaces again. That was alright with me. I never again had to wake up at “Oh dark thirty.”