Happy Veterans Day!

For our freedoms, let us not take them for granted. Dear blood bought these rights that are so often touted as an entitlement. 






I was so young, but I was a husband and I was a father. New to both and particularly new to this military life which had been thrust upon me. I noted in an earlier blog that I was one of those...the last group, I believe, to receive that 'infamous letter' in which the first line said ''Greetings". Now, in the words of the song, "it wasn't me that started that ole crazy Asian war, but I was proud to go and do my patriotic chore." Proud, well that would be a stretch at the time. Scared sh!@less would have been more accurate. Nevertheless, I did it and looking back I wouldn't have missed it and I am proud.

I did my service in the Military District of Washington. Just imagine! But, that is another story.

Fort Ord, California is where I did my basic training. And the day had arrived. We were going to throw our two live grenades.

Wow, what boy in his childhood had not played army and hadn't thrown some make believe grenade.

Okay, I admit, really tossing one of those bad boys is a little intimidating.

The range had a concrete wall from which we would toss our implements of destruction. We were given detailed instructions which I paid close attention to, particularly the part about not releasing the clip once you pull the pin. No second chances here. We were told the unfortunate incident, where a trainee pulled the pin and released the clip...thought oops, I guess, and pressed it back, then taking a throwing stance with the grenade in is hand, next to his ear, and well, you know the rest of the story.

So, there I was, grenade in hand, ready to send it spiraling like Staubach zipped a football. 

Textbook I thought, as I stooped below the wall. (I mentioned the training, did I mention we were suppose to assume a prone position following the toss?) We were and the drill instructor emphasized this forgotten detail with a blow, from his massive forearm to the back of my neck.

I, of course was read the riot act. I wanted to say...hell, the wall is four feet high. Why go all the way to the ground. The thought that on the field of battle, there might not be a four feet concrete wall didn't occur to me at the time. What I did say was "Yes, Drill Instructor!"

Second Grenade, same as the first, and I proudly went to the ground, full prone, snappy, like I meant it.

In the drill instructor's way.

He was yelling at me the whole time, as I ran around the viewing bunker. Once there, one of my comrades said, "Hey Sweet (for those of you who don't know, Drew Adams is my pen name. My given name is Andy Sweet) come check this out. 

They had periscopes back there. I peeked in one. The drill Sgt. was still jumping up and down, filling the air with expletives.

I want to thank this man, whoever he is, or was. At this age I can appreciate the job he did and the real danger he faced daily, trying to teach knuckleheads like me.

Also I'd like the thank all the instructors who teach and train our soldiers. They are most often the reason our loved ones return to us.

Happy Veterans day.

IN THE ARMY NOW! WHO...ME?

Happy Hump Day! Wednesday not particularly notable to me, as I rarely worked a standard work week. That is, until the Army. Once past the dreaded basic training, I was stationed at Ft. Myer in Arlington. VA. That's was the first time I realized some people actually get two days off in a row.

All you persons in the military, I send my praise and thanks to you. I know you are humping it on this Hump Day.

Yep. I got this letter in 1972, from Uncle Sam. It started out with the word "Greetings" and went down hill from there. I was the last group drafted into the armed services, and I went. Reluctantly, but I went.

It was just I didn't much want to get my a$$ shot off in Vietnam. Ironically, the closest I came to an injury during my time in the service was when they announced they were taking only volunteers to Vietnam. I nearly hurt myself stepping backward.

Aw well, basic training, where they tear you down to build you up. One of the tearin' down things was kitchen duty...you older vets knew this as KP...worse, they had something called "Stand by KD". That was seventeen hours of grueling, greasy, nasty work that you didn't even know you were going to have to do. Here's how it worked. Primarily on weekends, they would assign some of us as standbys.  Now, if you had an off post pass, you could still go off post. If your bunk was empty...well...they'd just go on to the next one. This search for victims usually took place around 3 am. Weird thing was...regular kitchen duty ran about ten hours, but if you were caught as standby, it was seventeen hours. Go figure.

So there I was...I had an off post pass, but couldn't afford to go anywhere. I was content though, to hang around, read, maybe catch a film at the post theater. I was on standby, but they hadn't had a round up in sometime.

Saturday morning, I heard them. The barracks were divided by a long row of tall standing lockers and on the other side, I heard them. Rousting for Standbys. Panic raged through me like a sickening current of electricity. This can't be happening. What can I do?

The bunk above me, we'll call it Charley's, was empty, he was off post and not on standby. With little regard for country or honor, I jumped out of bed, made it up so tight you could bounce a coin off of it, and leaped up into Charley's bunk. All, I might add, in the length of time it took them to make the other bay and come around the corner to mine.

There I was, in the bunk above mine, covers pulled up over my head, not daring to even breath. They stopped at my bunk. "Well, he's gone," I heard one say, then the sound of paper rustling on a clipboard. The sound of footfalls echoed down the bay away from me. Near its end, they got one. Poor sap!

Now, you may think me a shirker, but I did everything I was ordered to do while in the service. The job I was doing was even offered to me as a civilian as my discharged loomed. Had I been called to go wade across rice patty fields, dodging punji sticks, mines, and sniper's bullets, I would have done it. I was raised that way. I wasn't raised to be the dummy caught in the sack and doing seventeen hours of crud on my day off. But that's just me.