V1943-02FL

Basic Training, St Petersburg Fla, Feb/Mar 1943

Tent City We enjoyed the luxury of the Princes Martha Hotel for about one week while taking aptitude tests. After their completion we were moved by truck to Tent City to make room for the next train load being funneled into FL. Tent City was being created in Feb 1943 and we were among the early arrivals. We unloaded at a country club golf course, were issued a cot, blanket and assigned to tents set up on the golf course. We'd never seen so many tents! Tennis courts had been converted to showers by plumbing pipes overhead. We were there for four days, and assigned to Work Details and KP (Kitchen Police). There were three permanent buildings: one for storage, one a guard house for military prisoners from St. Pete, and the former club house converted to officers club and mess hall.

KP duty I drew KP in the officers mess. There was strict control of a large refrigerator which contained assorted desserts and pies from St. Pete. The refrigerator was locked and only unlocked to fill the trays of those waiting tables in the dining room. We soon learned the system and as a tray of pies went by, a fourth of them would disappear between the refrigerator and the dining room without the waiter (one of us on KP) ever missing his stride. The pies were immediately consumed and dishes disappeared in the washer. We KP's must have consumed two whole pies each before it was realized they were short! We received and extra two hours of pots and pans and extensive kitchen cleaning. They knew where the pies had disappeared but, their only evidence was this out of character happy crew singing while doing extra KP with no gripes.

Keeping warm: Those first nights were cold, our canvas tent blocked wind, but let heat out and cold in. We placed our rain coats on the cot then put on all the clothes we could, like two pants, two shirts, two socks, shoes, blouse, cap, overcoat, put our feet in the barracks bag and covered ourselves with the blanket. It froze the water in our canteens. The wash water at the tennis court was cold as ice, no one had an interest in bathing.

The man died: At daybreak one morning a prisoners tried to make a break and was shot! We were awakened by the shouts and shots from a couple tents behind us. The unconfirmed rumor at breakfast was the man died – we had entered a new environment.

Pneumonia: A fellow in our tent was running a high fever the night before we moved to another area. We could tell he was very sick. He had a bad chest cold when we moved in and those cold nights and cold water hadn't helped. We'd managed to get him off work detail for the previous two days and he'd reported for sick call, but nothing was done for him. That night, convinced he was getting much worse, we carried him, cot and all, to the orderly tent and insisted they haul him into town to a doctor. We never saw or heard from him again although he said he'd write as soon as he could.

Tent made deluxe: The next day we moved to a recently bulldozed area about a mile further on, they continued clearing for more tents and a drill field. We were all Army Air Corps with more arriving daily. We were issued new tents and spent most of the day setting them up and moving in. There were eight to a tent and quite crowded. I thought there must be a better way to make use of tent space, everything was on the ground and empty above. Using boards that crated tent pegs, the nails from same and their metal packing straps, I made a square frame which we hung from the center tent pole. We made hangers of wood and wire and hung our clothes on this frame. It worked great, easing the crowded condition, and was envied by others. All would have emulated what we did but there wasn't enough material available – I felt such a method should have been included with each tent..

Read-n-Write: Our tent included a fellow from West Virginia who couldn't read or write, which explained why he seemed shy. The one next to him read a family letter and wrote back for him. After we became acquainted he asked me to write a private letter for him. When done I said your an intelligent guy, you can learn how to read and write, all you need is the opportunity. Don’t hesitate to ask for help, master one word at a time. (My father, taught the Kanona KS grade school before entering service and was assigned to teach reading and writing to those who grew up working in coal mines.) – I didn't realize illiteracy still existed, I lost track of him when we fanned out from Basic.

Tent Pegs: With tents up we received our first Basic Training Lecture. Our initial interest faded when we found there was only one topic, do not piss on the tent pegs, from sunset to sunrise we were to piss in the GI (Government Issue) cans, not on the tent pegs. The staff sergeant spent 30 minutes redundantly conveying this subject using different combinations of four letter words to describe the tent pegs, the cans, and our stupidity. I waited for the training lecture, then became disgusted, wondering about his IQ? My ROTC profs would not believe this. My sense of humor faded and I became angry – then realized I'd better control my temper. I watched others, they didn't need to be told the Sarg was at the limit of his mental budget, he’d found his nitch – the stripes were for dedication. I studied the group and lecturer, feeling this was an insult to the guys intelligence. However, I was naive, some needed to be emphatically told not to piss on tent pegs, these were semi permanent quarters, they called it Basic Training for a reason. Long ago Aristotle observed it takes all kinds.

Setting an Example: The first time we were addressed by a Training Officer he took advantage of an opportunity to teach by setting an example. A “wise guy” among us lipped off as if he took no crap from anyone, becoming an ideal teaching aid. The Army had generations of experience dealing with wise guys and in short order he was jogging back and forth infront of us with a rifle overhead between two regular Army guys. The rifle was heavy and they showed no mercy, Mr big shot found he was a nobody. We knew we were being taught to take orders or else and nobody wanted to be singled out to give an “or else” demonstration.

Try outs: Early on the officer in charge on the drill field called us to a halt and picked some of us to “try out” marching the men. I happened to be the first picked, and when done, knew I did a lousy job. I called cadence as done in ROTC, plain: “one – two – three – four”, pause “one – two – three – four”. Hearing others at a distance, I realized the staid text book method had been outmoded by: “hut-hup-hep-hoorr” pause, “hut hup hep hoorr” a rhythmical cadence. My next time up I called cadence in the new way. The officer gave me a quizzical glance, then turned to the others and said, “this man is now your drill instructor”, then to me, “take over, your now in charge” and walked off to look after the next bunch. Though the officer observed from afar I was left entirely on my own and received no instruction on what to do.

Overwhelming influx The military abruptly realized they needed to expand the AAC rapidly, thus induction centers were shipping in people faster than even crude accommodations could be set up and staffed. Many of the officers were “retreads”, retirees with prior experience, such as National Guard, etc. These fellow did and excellent job, each picking persons from the new recruits – one officer might have had half a dozen Pvt instructors under their direction. It worked remarkably well.

Marching Band dividend: I wondered why I was the first of four who tried out? The officer knew nothing about any of us, except what his eyes told him, I was short and certainly not movie actor handsome, yet he must have seen something. I’d been drum major in our high school band, perhaps it was my posture – head up shoulders back, as if on parade – such was natural for me. When trying out it seemed perfectly normal to be in charge, I’d been there, done that.

Marching Band 1936 little drum major 6^th grade Berts band won tri-state contest

Sharp outfit: Each of us were issued a Soldiers Hand Book on how to stand at attention, salute, etc. and I taught every thing I could remember from ROTC. I also taught things we did in marching band, like a counter march that reversed left and right columns. In short order “our outfit” was marching as if a professional band, heads up and lines straight with crisp response to commands. These were my buddies and we made it fun to do. Ordinary drilling had become boring so we decided to do something different. The football coach had me call signals our Sir year – so in keeping with that I gathered the guys in a big huddle and worked out what we would try next, like sending columns off then reforming – we took pride in looking sharp. Informally we were buddies, formal we were play acting, I barked orders and they snapped to.

Singing: It was a long hot dry march to and from the drill field. I found myself drawing on the cadence rhythm of snare-drum beats for a band, imitating the sounds with a: tidy ump, tidy ump, tidy ump ump ump. Also the after beat of a coronet part with a tidy ump pa ump pa ump pa pa.. And there were marching songs of long tradition for marching men. A new one to me was Al Le Wetta Gentle Al Le Wetta (sp) a French song. We tried every marching song I could remember in addition to what we could pick up from what we heard others sing. I sang base in the boys quartet, and possessed a reservoir of familiar songs. There was a right time and a wrong time for singing, we developed a feeling for when to and not to sing. When in the mood they were terrific, the fun was contagious. Singing was perhaps the most unifying thing we did. As we became a team they took delight in showing others how to march and sing.

Rekindled pride: One outfit didn’t care for their “trainee instructor” and were deliberately screwing up. The officer took over and marched them adjacent to us and told me to take over – we had observed enough to know why. I assumed a military posture in front of them, called them to attention, ordered them to align their ranks, then said At Ease (relax in place). In a relaxed one on one tone I said, all right fella’s, your now going to knock off all that crap and march right. I know, and know you know, how to march. These guys were like our guys, so grinning at them I said, you are now going to demonstraight your damn good at it – now lets do it. I stiffened up in a military manner and shouted Atten_tion Foreward_March. They were great, they wanted one who could play the roll of leader. The officer observed and came back. He told me to return my outfit, and began new tryouts – we all felt good about the outcome. Those years as a high school drum major prepared me for that event, it was like Bert Hostinski telling me to march the band.

Leader “Qualification”: I didn't realize till later that I had to prove myself. Later was one evening after chow. A friendly wrestling match had started in the dirt street. A crowd had gathered and I joined to watch. it was friendly and exciting. When ended everyone wanted to see more. The crowd asked for someone to challenge the winner, who looked quite capable of taking care of himself, there were no takers. Then attention focused on their drill instructor. I was trapped and knew I’d better put up a good show, even if I lost. Leadership established by combat, was an ancient code. As kids we all watched movie show down fights. I played center in footwall and enjoyed line of scrimmage battle but tried to avoid one-on-one fights independent of sports. Fights between kids had an honor code, big guys were not to fight little guys, as that was not a fair. These fellows wanted to see what I was made of, it didn’t mattered if I won, but I damn well better put up a good fight.

I’d wrestled some my senior year in high school and some as a freshman in college. Even so I was not too confident, my opponent was about 6 ft. to my 5' 8" and weighed about 185 to my 160, and was a complete unknown. My concern faded when I found he didn't know how to wrestle. I achieved a good take down and pinned him in short order. It seemed anti climactic for the others but I was glad it was over, intent on leaving quickly and quietly.

No way, they immediately arranged for a new challenger, they said the other man was tired, thus it was an unfair match. Any excuse would have been adequate, they wanted a real contest. I wrestled seven men in a row, till no more takers, I was pooped! Thank goodness none of them had wrestling experience, and the big fellows, who could have “taken me” were considered too big and didn’t step forward. Thereafter no one questioned my “authority”, in fact they seemed to want me to be their leader, I was no longer imposed but selected by them.

Pre-Conditioned: Success was due to prior experience. I worked 12 hour days 6 days a week shoveling grain and lifting 100 lb cans/sacks at the Oberlin Milling Co. In high school Rex Loehefener taught me how to take a man down then wear him out by having him lift you and himself while you rest, to repeat this till he’s worn down, then pin him. At K-State I learned much, wrestling as “sparing partner” for team members, but did not try out for the team, engineering was tough enough without adding fatigue.

Getting Dirty: Calisthenics was an important part of Basic training. In the process we became sweaty and then filthy from running in place, hitting the dirt, etc., until we were exhausted. The dirt was a mixture of sand, loosened to a depth of about six inches mixed with charcoal from centuries of decomposed vegetation. This left a sooty appearance that made you feel dirty. We were given a canteen of water when we went through the chow line as water was hauled in on trucks. The water tanks were wooden, of horse drawn vintage, resurrected and set on flat bed trucks.

Bathe & Shave: We drank the water for morning and afternoon drill periods. We used the evenings canteen’s worth to wash – try bathing in a canteens of water. By each of us sharing a little water into a mess kit we could make enough soapy suds to get wet all over and then rinse with the remainder. Since there was no water to spare we shaved dry for a day till we found how to improvise. The only thing we could get seconds on was coffee. It wasn't good to wash with but it worked great for shaving.

The Kitchen: We didn't have a mess hall but we did have a kitchen. The boiler of an antique steam tractor was placed between two kitchens which were about 20 yards apart. The kitchens were a 20 ft. square concrete slab covered by a tent with its sides rolled up. A main steam line supplied some ten outlets extending to chest high and terminating with a shutoff valve. The cooking vessels were GI (Government Issue) trash cans. Unpeeled potatoes, cabbage, beans, meat, coffee, etc. were dumped in the can. The can was filled with water and slid under a valve. A piece of pipe was shoved into the can and then threaded into the steam valve. The valve was turned on and steam soon had the stuff cooked as it bubbled up. Tent pegs were run through can handles and four men carried and placed them in parallel rows forming a chow line of potatoes, cabbage, stew, coffee, etc.

Serving Chow: We shuffled by in parallel columns. The shuffling raised dust and each man was left to his own ingenuity on how to arrive at the cans with a clean mess kit. It was necessary to wipe our mess kit before food was served, it was a constant search to find the cleanest thing left. Most used the inside face of their undershirts. These hadn't been cleaned since they were issued, but sweat was cleaner than dirt, it was a desperate kind of sanitation. The man serving chow had to work his way down a GI can of potatoes in layers giving each man a little of the dirt before it got black.

Dining etiquette: We learned where to sit, how to eat and protect our food. The experienced ones never sat by those who were about finished. It's a natural habit to dust ones seat when getting up after sitting in the dirt. Such a dusting can wreck all previous efforts to keep the chow clean. You learned to eat fast, hunch over your kit and mind your manners – give warning to your neighbors before rising so they can cover their food. Also walk clear before dusting your seat or you'd be more than growled at. Obviously this mode of eating had it's side effects. I was awakened one night by a stomach ache. It was pitch black out and a torturous course to “the trench” (toilets).

Toilet facilities Our open air “facilities” were designed for mass usage. A long five foot deep ditch was dug with a drag line. A long box sled of toilet seats back to back straddled the trench. The seats were drug further along as the trench filled and the depositing process continued. The seats were in constant demand often accommodating urgent efforts. All personnel sensitivity while performing private duties had vanished. I'm reminded of the music Ebe Tide beach sounds, void of civilization sounds. We too were surrounded by natures early morning quiet, except for unspoken sounds emanated from those rows of occupied seats. They sat expressionless, faces staring at the space in front of them, side by side and back to back as if the others weren't there. They never uttered a sound, as if concentrating while contractions expelled their waste. The sounds were universal & timeless. Listeners waiting in line were also expressionless, revealing no awareness of the quite audible emissions. All were drawn to this occasion by nature, to release pressure built up during the night. Each puckered orifice produced it's own tone. Once committed the puckers were subject to involuntary control. The pitch was unpredictable, some tones were tightly held in a futile attempt for silent relief, these had a kind of musical flair. Other just blurted out in explosive relief. The players finished at random. The sounds caused those waiting in line to experience sympathy pangs of urgency. Trickling sounds caused full bladders to becomes impatient. Intestinal pressure, seeking to migrate, caused pucker spasms, those vulnerable had to concentrate on constraining their urge, wanting relief but not just yet.

No Precedent Behavior during this ancient ritual did not have a precedent in civil life and there was no training manual. Where else would you have the population of a city, some coming, some waiting, some doing, some leaving ; all within the allotted time to wash & shave. The facilities were improvised out in the open to handle masses. Down wind whiffs of sour notes passed unnoticed. They blending with the special fragrance of the place. Sounds sure to have caused comment in any other circumstance were heard but stoically left unnoticed.

Unlit Path: In pitch dark it was hard to know where the open trench was as compared to the sled of seats. Missing the sled in either direction would be bad. The ditch was about four feet deep full of contaminated water ahead of the sled of seats and super contaminated water in the used end. Yeah the used end was yesterdays piss, shit, orange peal and candy wrappers. There was no equivalent civilian hazard.

Forewarning: As I lay on my cot I knew I'd have to make the trip, but before starting I tried to recall every detail of the path so I could find my way in the dark. My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps from up the street. They were from GI shoes, unlaced on bare feet producing a distinct slap as they struck the dirt. The pace began normal enough and then increased in tempo then stopped – a descriptive exclamation, a single word – a fresh hazard had been deposit on the path.! His condition was duly noted, encouraging others to get a head start, there were few who didn’t turn out that night – more than once. Wearing apparel for the occasion was GI shoes only. It was risky to even wear shorts and it was a foolish man who walked that dirt path barefoot.

GI highball: One evening returning from chow we saw regular army types having a GI do double time, with an empty rifle, around the orderly tent. He was cursing everyone and every time he'd stop he was kicked in the ass and sent going again. He looked near exhaustion, we wondered what this seemingly excessive treatment was about. We stood by, ignoring wave off’s to go on. The guy stopped, pleading he had to take a shit – it was obviously too late. An armed guard took him to the trench. We learned he'd been ducking drill by going on sick call. This day they gave him a “GI highball” (glass of caster oil). He'd spit on those present, said he'd rather be in the Italian army and carried on without restraint – regular army personnel had decided he needed some “discipline”. On return from the trench he pleaded for them to court martial him. There was no more physical abuse and the crowd broke up.

Latrine cleanup: Next morning we saw him arm pit deep in the mucky end picking up orange peels and candy wrappers floating on the surface. He was still swearing and seemed little subdued. This seemed a bit much just to keep the “latrine” litter free. Little sympathy was expressed, all believed he'd brought it on himself – though repulsed by the foul methods. The following day we could see him at some distance, under guard being caused to chop down trees, clear underbrush and dig/fill pits; his gestures were still hateful. By the third day he had become a model soldier. They had made him wash in a disinfectant solution which stained his finger nails. He’d been broken but had no value as a soldier, none of us could trusted him, he was surely obsessed with getting even. We never saw him again.

First Pass: Word spread like wildfire, we were being given passes. We'd been in basic training for almost two months and had never received an off-base pass. Prior to Basic I'd been on K.P. every Sunday and hadn't been off base since entering service. Passes were good from 5:00 to 10:00 pm, and it was all ready 5:00 pm. We jubilantly ran to our tents dug out clothes, saved for the off base occasion, rapidly stripped and dressed. That afternoon they had laid planks across a ditch, had us strip and line up on the plank under a pipe connected to the water wagon. They turned water on to get us wet, have us suds with GI soap, then rinsed us off with a squirt of fresh water – they had cleaned us up for our outing. Shirt tails and ties were arranged on the run to the orderly tent to pick up our passes. The mile and a half to the main gate was traversed as if a 100 yard dash. We had the enthusiasm of kids strength of men in peak condition.

Dining out: We rode the Country Club street car to St. Petersburg. Streets were jammed with soldiers with a sprinkling of sailors, soldiers were every where like ants around an piece of cake. Almost all were buck privates paid $23.00 per month; however, none of us had been paid and our $10.00 or so civilian money was almost gone. The four of us found a seat at a seafood restaurant, a novel treat for us from prairie country. A navy officer and his wife made room for us at their table, they were in their 40's, he was regular Navy. At first we were rank conscious but they caused us to feel at ease and seemed to enjoy our insatiable curiosity about seafood, Florida, and even the Navy.

Poinsettias and Tangerines: After our seafood dinner we roamed the crowded streets, saw our first poinsettias and ate our first tangerines.

Candles: There was no “lights out” as we had none and it was usually dark by the time we'd eaten and gathered back at the tents. Thus after reserving money for streetcar fare back we spent the last on candles which were scarce and selling at a premium. That night we used those candles to write home, telling of our experiences and asking for money – we had not been paid.

The Little Girl: To get on the street car we have to back track to where in entered St. Pete, we were afraid of being AWOL (Absent Without Leave), we had to get on board soon. The street car was packed, with no more standing room. A little girl about 7 or 8 got on and the soldiers shifted to make room and give her a seat. She was a pretty little thing with long blonde hair, sat very prim and proper, not too sure of herself in the crowd of loud soldiers, some of whom had been drinking heavily. One glassy eyed soldier standing near by was stoned. His appearance was sloppy and he reeked of bourbon and spilled beer. Suddenly without warning he vomited, the vile output erupted all over the little girls hair, face and front of her clothes. The poor kid sat mute with her previous pleasant look frozen on her face. Soldiers were so embarrassed, they could have beaten the drunk, but their concern was for the little girl. Handkerchiefs came from everywhere and as each was consumed it was thrown out the window and another handkerchief provided until she was wiped as clean as possible. There were profuse apologies and glares of disgust at the drunk who with dripping mouth was shoved aside and shunned. The little girl remained silent except to indicate that she got off at the next stop. Her dress was ruined and soon money was being collected. As she stepped off the streetcar she had a fist full of dollar bills. There was silence as the streetcar continued to the base. To civilians all soldiers looked alike – we knew what happened could not be repaired with those dollars. We didn't care for the reputation we'd just earned.

Balancing act: One drizzly morning and were sent clad in raincoats to clear underbrush for a new drill field, the drizzle became a steady rain but we continued. We were away from our Trench facilities making it was necessary to go into the underbrush and pick a spot to squat. It was an interesting problem, in how to retain the protection of the rain coat and at the same time drop ones trousers, holding them above the soggy turf and lower the olive drab shorts. Each man evolved his own style of using a half squat with spread legs to hold the pants, then change to feet spread, knees together to allow the shorts to clear, then shift to a more solidly balanced posture for the purpose of the whole exercise. When completed it was advisable to waddle clear as reversing the process also required balance when vulnerable to ones own handiwork. During the business phase ones mind is free to dwell on many thoughts. I watched the rain drip off the brim of my fatigue hat.

Fatigue Hat: The WW II fatigue hat was the most ego deflating piece of wearing apparel ever issued. No matter how you molded the brim or set it on your head you still looked and felt like a slob. The droopy rimmed fatigue hat seemed as if designed to crown a soldier squatting in the rain.

Being Prepared: I was snapped out of this meditative mood by the realization that I didn't have any toilet paper. Everything was wet and I was about to sacrifice my handkerchief when I remembered I had part of the Oberlin Herald (home town paper) in my pocket, it had arrived that day. From then on, while in Tent City, I was never without it, always reading the selection before it was expended.

China Clipper We drew K.P. in St. Pete to feed those newly arriving. We were rousted out at 4:00 a.m. loaded in trucks and were on duty in one of the hotel cafeterias by 5:00 a.m. My job was to brush the remains from the food trays into a GI can, rinse the tray in a can of water and then load it on a rack to the China Clipper, the name universally applied to large feed through dishwashers. (China Clipper was Trans World Airlines sea plane that flew the pacific to China preceding the war.)

The Long Day People feed almost continuously except for about 1 1/2 hours in mid-morning and mid-afternoon. We stopped feeding after a fresh train load at about 10:00 p.m. By then we were all pooped and tired of doing the same job. That soon changed because we went on pots and pans and general cleanup. This continued till 2:00 a.m. when the trucks arrived to take us back to Tent City. When we heard the trucks had arrived we gave things a lick and a promise, left and climbed onto the trucks. Oh, but we were tired, rise and shine had been 22 hours ago, and we'd been on our feet most of the time. The mess sergeant came out, had us unload and ordered us back to finish the job. He didn't care for our last minute half measures used to finish fast. When no one moved to comply he became angry. This snapped our tempers. We told him we'd been up since 4:00 a.m., had worked through three sets of permanent kitchen personnel, that none of them came to Tent City to do our K.P., that we didn't care what he threatened, that we were leaving, and we did. Some of the wet behind our ears had been drying.

The Typhoon In the midst of our training Florida was swept by very strong winds and heavy rains. We were ordered to halt all activity and return to our tents. We were ordered to put on raincoats, place all belongings in our barracks bags and collapse our tents. We carried our belongings to the largest of the main structures for protection from the storm. We were then marched to an open area, away from the possibility of flying debris, and told we were to stay there till the storm passed. It was not yet dark but clouds were ominous and the wind was up. Not long after dark it began to rain. The wind blew in strong gusts, sometimes very hard. The rain continued till about dawn. It was a long cold wind buffeted night. We stood up all night, leaning into the wind and hunched to shed the rain. The ground was sloppy wet, it was pointless to try to sit or lay down. Remarkably except for the fatigue of standing in the chilly wind we had a ball. It was pitch black and you couldn't see a thing, but humor flowed non stop. In the quiet between strong winds someone say something. A voice out of the darkness, you had no idea who it was, and didn’t really care – I’d shake my head wondering who would ever think of such a thing. The storm was bad but we were not in the eye of it or subject to objects blown about. Herbert Graves from my home town also stood all night in that rain. Years later he reminded it as a terrible storm, I remembered the humor. I've always envied those who can think funny and convert storm to delight.

Firing Range: Early one morning we loaded aboard trucks, facing each other, on our way to the Firing Range. I’d looked forward to this, it was too early for much chatter. As we bumped along on the 6x6 truck plank seats I tried to remember what I'd learned of guns when hunting as a kid and ROTC. That morning we fired the Springfield 30-06 rifle, M1 Carbine, Thompson submachine gun and the "Grease Gun".

Squeeze the trigger: The Springfield was the WW I primary infantry weapon. The basic model was produced in 1903 and improved during WW I. In ROTC we were trained in manual of arms and marching with the British Enfield which used the same size round (ammunition) and which were used by American troops in WW I. However, I'd never fired this size piece (gun) before. I felt perfectly comfortable handling the weapon and as I'd release a round into the target and feel the recoil kick into my shoulder I had visions of being another Sergeant York, as depicted by Gary Cooper – until I saw what a poor job I was doing. This baffled me and I asked the instructor what I was doing wrong. He said I wasn't “squeezing off” my shots. I was pulling the trigger when I had the sight lined up. I should have been squeezing it gently only when I was on target and continue until the gun fired when it was ready. I'd been firing when I was ready. I followed his advice and my marksmanship improved dramatically.

Enfields to Britain Enfields were stacked along the walls of the K-State “armory” gymnasium used for ROTC training and for college basket ball games. After the British retreated from Dunkirk, all those guns were removed over night and shipped to Britain – as well as a 105 mm gun in the field house, I’ve always wondered if those guns made it or were sunk by German subs who were then sinking about 2 of 3 supply ships.

Marksman: My discharge paper declared, to whom it may concern, that I was a "Marksman". Probably a service record carry over from the Revolutionary war, but I never had occasion to fire a rifle again during 3 ½ years of service. Discharge forms hadn't caught up with our war. Our skills, if recorded, went in a remarks column. Smooth bore Revolutionary War rifles were not very accurate, “rifling” in Civil War gun barrels caused bullets to spin, soldiers hitting what they aimed at, casualties were very high. Pre WW I French troops trained to charge the enemy before he could un-stack his weapons, and ran headlong into the newly invented German machine gun. Army Air Corps marksmen were called Bombardiers and were directed to a target by Navigators, protected by Gunners aiming with remote sites with guns selected by Central Fire Control. My discharge paper say nothing of the technical training I was given.

Pulls up-n-left Our Thompson submachine guns were equipped with a long rectangular clip loaded with 45 caliber pistol ammunition. We lining up single file to take our turn firing at cardboard profiles of a man. At the head of our column was a 4x4 post topped with an 8 inch square board. The gun was placed on this pedestal and left pointing down range. When one finished, the clip was removed, the gun placed on safety and put on the stand pointed down range. The next man carried his own fresh clip, loaded the gun, faced down range, released the safety and fired the ammo in short bursts. The gun pulled upward and to the left, once you got the hang of it you could stitch a line of dots from lower right to upper left.

This won’t fire: The man in front of me was from New York City. He'd never handled guns before and was a bit flustered. He picked up the gun, loaded the clip, raised the gun and pulled the triggered – but it wouldn't fire. Before I was aware he had a problem he turned around, with the machine gun pointed at my belly, informed me and demonstrated by pulling the trigger, that the gun didn't work! I gently said "take your hand off the trigger!" and at the same time turned the muzzle away from the column of us. Without waiting for the instructor I told him politely but firmly to always keep the gun aimed down range - no matter what! Then after a quick look showed him that he hadn't released the safety.

The shakes: About 10 minutes later I was taking my turn loading carbine ammo into clips. Through the prior event I'd been calm as a cucumber, and studiously completed my own turn at firing the machine gun, Now my hands shaking, it was uncontrollable and embarrassing. I held my hands against the edge of the ammo box so that it wasn't obvious to the others. I'd seen cartoons and expressions of someone "shaking in their boots". The shaking ended by the time I’d loaded the clip.

The Grease Gun We fired the “Grease Gun” last, it looked like a grease gun with a short snout protruding from a larger diameter tube. It's shoulder stock was of heavy gage bent wire which folded into place. It used 45 cal ammo stored in an extra long clip. Included was a web carrying strap. It was cheap, and looked it, but would effectively spray lead. It was mass produced for air drop to insurgent forces. If you needed a machine gun you'd be delighted to have it. If you were issued one you'd feel short changed. We joked of doing present arms or a "pass in review" march with the contraption. We respected it for what it was designed to do – it was no joke.

Some ship out: After completing basic training we were assigned to work details until our name was call for shipment to specialty school. Each morning we'd fall in and march to chow. Upon return from chow we'd again fall in on the dirt street between rows of tents, take roll call and listen for names called out for shipment to their next destination. I was then told to march the remainder of us to some location on the base for work detail.

Busy Work Tent City had grown into a large base, and we found most work details were busy work to keep those waiting out of mischief. Anyone ducking work by staying in the tents were caught in morning sweeps for stragglers. those found were assigned to unpleasant duties. After wasting a day or two on busy work the 50% or so of us remaining devised a plan.

The Plan: I had the men fall in, briefed them on the plan insisting that they follow my commands as if on a parade ground, no horseplay. They agreed and off we marched. We observed that officers would stop individuals or small groups of soldiers during duty hours, they were goofing off and had no legitimate business. We also observed that an organized group of men marching in formation, could move about unhampered. We marched about the camp to see parts we hadn't seen before and to locate all the PX's. PX's had been sprinkled about the expansive base and did a large volume business in candy bars. We had huge appetites for sweets after all the physical exercise.

Discipline paid off I kept my eye peeled for officers especially those that seemed to take notice of us. We'd give them a display of fine marching; count cadence, expand and contract ranks, lustily sing marching songs and, above all, give them a snappy salute as we'd march by. Sometimes our performance was almost too perfect. We were hyper like a bunch of kids in a water melon patch in broad daylight! There was a bit too much spring in our step and cheerfulness in our songs.... we were loving it! Once after a prolonged delay at a PX I saw an officer eyeing some of us. Word was passed and I stepped into the street & called for everyone to fall in. The fellows responded but the officer approached me and wanted to know what we were doing at the PX. I told him the men had been given permission for a break and that we were now on our way to report for a work detail at such and such mess hall. He looked us over. Every man's expression fit the occasion, an endorsement to what was said. After a pause he turned back and said "very well, carry on". I saluted and like a composite machine we moved out. Whew that was a close one and all the guys knew it. Everyone had acted his part. On several occasions in those few days we were stopped by officers for an entirely different reason. They complemented us on our marching, military bearing and soldierly conduct. We appreciated the unexpected. Those officers were highly pleased that their training program under such conditions was producing such fine results. And it was, we had a tremendous feeling of togetherness as a team, ready to out perform any outfit.

Our Orders came: We were anxious to leave Tent City and eagerly looked forward to our next phase.

GI Humor: I’ve wished I’d been able to record the spontaneous GI humor. The loss of this spontaneous commentary is very regrettable. It was extemporaneous, triggered by events of the moment and volatile, one wise crack or comment being replaced by another. Some persons are inanely funny, it’s how they are and think. The funniest were often not aware they were expressing dry wit, their interpretation of an event, things as they saw them. Sometimes you were belly laughing inside but not dare reveal it and turn off the source. Humor defined how we humans are made as much as anything else. The more miserable the circumstance the more poignant the humor. I enjoy good humor, and wish it was spontaneous within. Forgive me for not being capable of bringing this attribute of of human experience for you to appreciate..