Peter Crosby writes:
What follows is written due, in part, to a prompt I saw in a newsletter for non Vietnam service stories. I had never seen the earlier prompt or most of the responses you received. I tend to be prolix, so feel free to pick, choose, and edit if so inclined. A second reason for this is that my father was a WWII vet, having taken a reserve commission when he graduated from Stevens Tech years before the war. He was called to active duty, stationed at Charleston and went to sea on an old cruiser when the fleet went out due to a hurricane, shifted to teaching 90 day wonders on a Spanish American War battleship on the Hudson River, was flown to Pearl Harbor to work on refloating battleships and served as the no. 2 operations officer on the only Navy repair ship in the Pacific until the war ended. I only learned a little bit about his experiences and wished I had probed. Consequently, I am also doing this so that I leave some information for my children if they are interested.
My military related stories start with my arrival at Dartmouth. I had been told by the admissions office that: 1.1 was number one on the waiting list for the class of '68. 2. No one had been taken from the waiting list in their memory, and 3. I would not be able to transfer any credits if I attended Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (where I had a hefty scholarship and assignment to a special program that would give me 6 humanities courses over 4 years). If I did reapply I was told that I had a reasonable chance of admission. An older friend had taken a gap year, attending the University of Grenoble and my parents raised that as an alternative. A friend's mother heard of this and declared that I would never do it. So I did. I turned 18 that Fall and had to register for the draft at the consulate in Lyon. I went there and tried to register with Local #1 which covered all who lived overseas when they turned 18. They would not let me do it because my student visa was only good for one year. They were only given for 1 year periods, but I couldn't win the argument. I got into Dartmouth and arrived without financial help. I looked into ROTC and discovered that my eyesight was so bad that no program would take me. It was in the neighborhood of 20/400 - legally blind in most states without corrective lenses.
The Fall of senior year I was involved as a passenger in an accident involving a pedestrian who was crossing Route 91 just over the crown of a hill after dark. We were returning after taking his then girl friend to Mount Holyoke. I had gone along for the ride. Dark was falling and we realized that we couldn't make it back in time for a fraternity meeting and weren't pushing. Despite very hard braking and an effort to steer into the median he couldn't be avoided and came over the passenger front fender, shattered the windshield and jacked that side of the car. After the car stopped off the road I kept the driver from going back to what I was certain was a body and reviewed what had occurred with him. Some people stopped and the Troopers soon arrived, interviewed us separately, and told us that the victim was wearing a local college jacket and his wallet had an ID from a college nearby. I had hit a huge pheasant on my way to summer work at 5:30 am that summer and lost a windshield. Anticipating the breaking glass I had gotten my hands up in front of my neck before the impact. I had powdered glass everywhere and a glass shard stickingout of the base of my left thumb. The Troopers eventually took us to the local emergency room and the on call surgeon tried to talk me into waiting to have the tendon spliced in Hanover. I refused. When he finished the job I rejoined the Troopers and driver. They asked the facility to draw blood from the driver and test for alcohol. The senior Trooper then told us that they couldn't wait any longer, our accounts of what occurred matched (surprise) and the evidence (skid marks, damage) were consistent with our accounts. They asked for the blood test knowing it would be negative to provide us with proof in case there was a lawsuit. I had a brace on my thumb and someone from the fraternity house came down a got us. I learned to do a lot left handed and kept the brace on my right hand to weaken my grip. My draft board hadn't met its quota since the Korean War because it was a farming area in Central NY.
I never did have a draft physical. The Board had my Hanover address and I was in central NY after graduation and hitting every reserve unit I could find while applying for Naval CCS. When I got a notice for a physical in Concord I called the draft board and spoke with Mrs. Crucifolli, the Secretary. She said she would schedule one for Syracuse and I would get a notice. I soon left for NH, called when the notice reached my parents and she worked on a Concord physical. I went back to NYS. When I called her the third time she hesitated and then in a very quiet voice said "Pete, this can go on forever." Before the fourth notice reached NH I got a message to call her. She told me that she had worked for Local 52 for decades and had gotten a letter from a Navy Dr. in Albany saying that I met the physical standards for the draft. It wasn't a form letter and was the only one she had received like it. I had had my CCS physical in Albany and I must have told my draft physical story to another applicant. My CCS app did get to a review board after my father called the fellow he served under during WWII in the Pacific. He had become the highest ranking non-flyer in the Navy as a Rear Admiral heading the Bureau of Ships. My application packet was found behind a file cabinet in Albany. I made it to the final board and they only took 2 marine architects (graduate degree engineers from MIT) who would have to sign up and wait for 2 years.
I got my draft notice signed by Nixon on a Friday in September. The next morning I got a call from an Air National Guard Colonel who offered me my choice of jet engine mechanic positions: fighter or heavy lift engine used in civilian aircraft. I had the highest score they had seen on a manipulative perception test. The heavy lift mechanic had worked "on call" and vacation replacement for civilian carriers while active in the Guard, putting himself through undergrad and grad school at Syracuse. He was leaving the Guard for a tenure track position and was debt free. The Col. sympathized about the bad timing. Subsequently I was contacted by two Army Reserve units while in Basic. One was made up of mostly of students and professors from the universities in Rochester. Their summer camp consisted of remaking road and traffic signs to be used whenever we invaded Cuba - a civil affairs unit. Eventually I learned that I could have been transferred to the reserves.
I went to the Syracuse AFEES station on October 15,1969, along with roughly 50 other men. One was a member of my high school class who told me he had tried to get hooked on methadone, to make him ineligible, but it hadn't worked. I didn’t see him again until my 50th high school reunion. He told me that he had just walked out the door of the AFEES Station and kept looking over his shoulder for many years. He never received anything in the mail, remained a registered voter, paid his taxes and relaxed after about 10 years. I didn't leave and after passing through various stages I found myself seated in a large room with everyone else.
At the front of the room was a U.S. Marine in dress uniform who announced that the Marines found themselves in need of additional men, that they preferred men who enlisted but would settle for someone who had been drafted, but volunteered to become a Marine. If no one volunteered, then he would have to pick someone. He let that settle in and then asked for a volunteer. He asked again. He warned that he would have to pick at random and asked again. No one moved a muscle. He picked up a clipboard, ran his index finger down a page, lifted it and slid it down the next sheet. He asked for a volunteer. There was total silence. Up came the clip board, the finger slid and stopped.
He looked up and then said:" Peter Crosby. Stand up." Everyone but me exhaled and I stood up thinking that it would run down my leg. He looked at me for a long, long time - probably 30 seconds - and then: "Sit down Crosby. You're taken." I wobbled down onto my folding chair and was the only one breathing. He looked at his list and called for a volunteer. No one moved and I was the only one breathing. He looked disgusted and called another name. That fellow stood slowly walked forward and the rest of us were released. Years later I told the story at a cocktail party and at the end a woman said that her brother told the same story virtually word for word.
About 20 of us were culled from the herd and told we were going to Ft. Dix and that I was in charge of getting us there. I was given a variety of paperwork, chits for one meal and we were taken to the airport. Loaded on a flight to LaGuardia which had empty seats a stewardess asked who was in charge, came to me and offered me a seat in 1st class. I declined and said I wanted to be seated in the rear where I could see my draftees. She offered seats for some up front and I agreed as long as they didn't get any alcohol. She laughed, we were seated and took off. At LaGuardia we got sandwiches and eventually on a bus to Ft. Dix. I was surprised that I didn't lose anyone. On arrival they took my paperwork and I became part of the mob and realized I had a sinus infection, went on sick call which confirmed it. I was spent 36 hours in bed and on K.P. and then was bused to a basic training unit.
It was a long way from the main Army facility, a short distance from the end of an Air Force runway, and made up of wooden buildings that looked like they were used in WWII. The white paint was peeling off the two story barracks. Each building had a platoon in it. I unloaded my gear into a foot locker and talked briefly with the guys who were already there and learned that the Drill SGT (DS) was an angry foul mouthed bastard and his assistant/Troop Pusher who lived in the building slept with the light on and screamed all night in his sleep. He was a little guy who had been a tunnel rat.
Within an hour we were told to stand by our foot lockers at what we thought was Attention". After a while the DS came upstairs with another, much taller and thinner DS. In retrospect I should have realized that he was not what I expected. He announced that he had to take 2 men to fill out his platoon, that he knew we formed friendships quickly and if 2 wanted to come together he would take them. He gave us a few minutes to think about it and returned. No one volunteered. He then walked slowly down the narrow space and looked at each of us. His face was emaciated with a large hook nose and didn't seem to blink. He got to the end and he called out a name and then my name. "Put you gear in your duffle and meet me downstairs in 5 minutes" We did it and I got a bunk on the 1 st floor of my "new" barracks. The mattresses were so thin that if you pulled the top blanket tight, the mattress curled up. No problem bouncing the smallest coin you had! About 30 minutes later my new DS was back with a small loose leaf binder like a modern day planner. He sat on the locker, told me to sit on the bunk, and opened the binder to a blank form. Name, where from, birthdate. "You're older than most. " Education? Memories of every film about Basic for college grads spools - but a voice says: He can look at your records - lieing to him will make it worse. Short silence and he says High School? Yes. College? Yes. Graduate? Yes. Where? Dartmouth. An Ivy Leaguer! I already have a Platoon Guide, you're next. A bit more and he told me to get some sleep since the training day was over and I had been sick.
The next morning we fell in after breakfast, the Platoon Guide reporting "All present" and then we were told to gather in front of a small stage. My DS did the talking for the cadre. I realized he was a Master SGT (E-8), the senior NCO, and they were all Airborne Rangers (including the troop pushers who slept in their own rooms in the barracks), except for the one I had left.
We know that most of you aren't here by choice. We also know that no two are the same. Some are strong, some aren't. Some are smart, others not so much. Some are fast. Some are quick learners, some may not have a military muscle in their body. Our job is to get you through training successfully. You do not want to recycle - that is Hell - and we do not want you to recycle. We only ask that you try and we will do our best to get you through. If anyone gets a 3 day pass, everyone will get a 3 day pass. We will teach you and train you to master what you need to move on to advanced Individual training. We will also teach you things that you won't learn as part of any regular training, but we have learned. These are things that will increase your chances of survival if you go to Nam. It doesn't matter what your MOS may be. You maybe a clerk or a mechanic, but you may still find yourself in deep shit and the standard Basic training may not be enough to bring you through.
You are not going to learn to march here. We will teach you enough to move from one place to another without attracting attention. If you get assigned to a unit where you have to march, they will teach you.
It only took a few minutes, but it made a major difference, especially as days passed and they lived up to it. Then we went back into formation and were told we were headed somewhere and told how to move into a column and march where we were told under a different cadre member. Like all training bases Dixwas a sandbox and when it rained it turned into huge puddles, especially on the dirt roads. I was near the first rank as we approached a pond and the guys eyed each other and kept on. About 6 feet from the water
Goddammit! Don't you have any common sense? Guide around the water and keep your feet dry!!!
it was a couple years before I realized that DS of the platoon I left had disappeared within a short time. We never saw the CO,Exec, or 1 st SGT which I later learned was unusual- it was also unusualthat ourtraining cadre was made up entirely of Airborne Ranger Vietnam vets and only the troop pushers were single tour men who had too much time left when they returned to the States or got out of the hospital.
About a week later my DS made me his platoon guide. I only recently realized that I never was replaced which let me spend time on the fringe of the cadre throughout Basic. I learned that they knew who had enlisted and what for. They evaluated each enlistee's chances of succeeding in often specialized technical training. A guy trying to beat the draft and Nam by enlisting for an MOS that would not be at risk would be promised it by desperate recruiters. Theywouldsignfor3or4years. I learned that the guys who washed out of the schools usually were sent into the infantry- at least according the cadre.
The first draft lottery was drawn one evening while I was at Dix. Every radio was tuned to listen to it. We all reacted as our birthdates were drawn - low, high and middle. There were men in my platoon who had enlisted and had very high numbers. We had no training the next day and before longthe DS's arrived in a group and tookthose guys away. When they returned the next afternoon we learned that they had been taken to Philadelphia and toured the bars under the supervision and protection of the DS's. I never asked where they spent the rest of the time and no one volunteered the information.
One of the few names I remember is John Damato. He taught English at a NYC prep school and was shaped like an eggplant. He had a great attitude, never stopped trying, and "didn't have a military muscle in his body." Within a couple days the entire cadre used "Your other left, John!" whenever anyone needed a simple correction. It was usually followed by an honest laugh. John was in my platoon and about halfway through he collapsed while doing the man carry. The cadre diagnosed a hernia, ran to get a car and took him to the hospital. My DS came to me later in the day and explained that they had been correct and that John was lucky it wasn't herniated because it wouldn't require quick surgery. He had called the prep school and learned that they would jump at the chance to get him back and, due to their health insurance contract, John was still covered and a civilian surgery would be covered. He had told John about this and his right to refuse surgery bythe Army and get a medical discharge with full benefits. He also told him that they would bring a lot of pressure to have the surgery and that the cadre would not leave him alone - having someone there 24/7 - until they were kicked out. They managed to be there for 3 days and then were ordered by a Col to only appear during visiting hours. The next time I saw John was when he came to the unit to get his personal items and say good bye - with his discharge paperwork in hand.
H/e had another injury later in training: a fellow dislocated his right shoulder. He had enlisted for 4 years and was supposed to go to a series of electronics schools for training that would keep him far from Nam. The consensus of the cadre was that he wouldn't make it through the first school after basic. He was told what the injury was, that they could put it back in place but would not. They explained that if they did, the medics
would not write it up as a dislocation. They had to see it. If so written up it would get him a medical discharge. They wrapped a stick in a cloth and had him bite on it. He wasn't given an option. The medics growled at the cadre for not popping it back into place. They got an appropriate response and a couple days later he came by to pick up his personal gear.
I was very impressed by my DS. He was very observant, read people well, kept an even keel, had the promised patience if someone was trying, and looked after his troops. The other cadre seemed like him, but I didn't know them as well. We had one odd ball in another platoon - he was quiet, kept drying his helmet liner, and I was told was always the first in the showers. One day he just wasn't there. My DS, as the senior NCO, had referred him for a psych evaluation and he was gone. Our first day at the range after sighting in our M-14's when I came off the line he commented: You don't close your eyes. Not a question. I said that's right, how did you know? His response: Target acquisition. Your chances of survival are higher.
One day before we fell out for dinner they told us that we would be "going on post" afterward for a program. When we fell in the cadre were in their dress greens, polished boots, etc. We "marched" through woods and to a field where they had us fall out and gather. My DS told us that the program was put on to get volunteers for the airborne. That there would be a sound and light demo, a sergeant doing a promo and then calling for volunteers and someone in the back would jump up and trot down to the stage. He's a plant. No one in this company is going to volunteer, We are going to be sitting in the center of the theater. Cadre at the corners and middle on the aisles. You will not get past any of us. If you are interested, you will have plenty of opportunities later. Talk to us first. It went off as described. Someone in my company must have twitched because 6 DS's stood upas one. The sergeant running the show stormed down the aisle to my DS and started yelling at him. After a bit, he was invited outside to discuss it. He elected to return to the stage after looking him and his decorations over. I wasn't aware of any repercussions.
We had a class on Awards and Decorations where the only teaching aid was a poster. My DS had brought a cigar box and as he worked through the medals he would rummage in it and then hand out 3 to be passed back and then returned by the next row.
When he got to the Silver Star a voice from the back asked: These are yours, you got 3? That's right. What did you do? SGT (the troop pusher) how did you getyours? We were on a large unit movement through triple canopy. Two VC were tied off on opposite sides of the trail and took turns emptying their clips as they swung from side to side. We all tried to dig holes in the path or find a rock or tree. It went on and on. More and more people were hit, no one got them. The next thing I knew I was under them and had killed them. Later when I was wounded and in the hospital I learned that it was a psychotic break. Sergeant, how did you get yours? The first one should have been a unit award. I was the senior man left functioning. The second was a psychotic break. I earned the third one. I never heard a single war story from any of the cadre except forthat exchange.
There was no harassment. The barracks were decrepit with linoleum floors that was torn and only covered parts of the floors. The floors had holes. Cleaning the barracks meant waiting for the second floor to sweep their sand through holes on the center line so it would miss our bunks and then we swept it all through our holes to the ground. No one complained about keeping the latrine and showers clean. No toothbrushes involved in that. We were all called out to fall in one evening and a platoon made up of Maine musicians who were in a Reserve band unit were told that they would have 10 minutes to go in, empty their foot lockers, and bring all the lockers outside and stack them. Whistle! Unsuccessful. Chewed on a bit and given 8 minutes to do it after having taken them back in, returned everything to them, and fallen back in. Whistle! Unsuccessful. Chewed again. Everything back in place again. Fallen backin. Going easy on you: 8 minutes. Again. Whistle! They storm inside again. Thistimethe windows are opened and they throw the footlockers out. Even the ones from the first story broke on landing for the most part. everyone but their D SGT is virtually rolling on the ground. He calls for them to fall in, walks back and forth a couple times, looks at the pile. Then stands in front of them, hands at his sides, rocking forward and back...Alright. Getyour new footlockers from the truck behind the chow hall.
At some point in the first week: Army Regulations now provide that if you are dropped to do push ups, whoever calls forthem has to do them with you one for one. We have done enough pushups.
We were issued M-14's, some of the last trained on them. Some had never seen a rifle. We put a lot of time in at the ranges. Failing to qualify meant you recycled. Everyone qualified, some like John Damato with the minimum score. I shot Expert returning a maximum amount of ammo. We zeroed at 250 meters and had targets beyond 500 m. To the surprise of the cadre we were issued M-16's late in the cycle. They were in terrible shape, coated with caked on carbon. We had just been blessed with a 2nd LT that the cadre could not scare off. A recent grad of Airborne he was hot to get to Nam and insisted on overseeing training except at the ranges, he insisted on inspecting the M-16's after cleaning. We spent an entire weekend. The cadre blessed them and he rejected them. They cleaned some themselves, gave them out, and they were rejected. He insisted on us running over 3 miles wearing galoshes. The cadre were livid due to the likelihood of injury. I was on light duty for a knee problem for 3 days and never fully trusted it again. No VA for it.
The cadre agreed that... He's the kind that gets troops killed He'll take the suggestion to lead from the front - if it's needed. Anyone's guess what type of bullet will take him out. Remember: This is 1969 long before it became a publicized problem.
Everyone who served or has seen a movie touching on Army training has heard the common practices of cadence counting and call and response while marching. "Jodi" and your girl friend were a common topic. A common "song" while running was "I want to be an Airborne Ranger". My cadre had their own variation on it which they taught to us. The DS in charge of our movement would sing out the lines (Example: I want to be an Airborne Ranger/Live a life of death and danger/followed by some explicit alternative lines. We were to respond to each: NoF'ingWay! with vigor and volume. We complied.
Sometimes we had to hustle from one location to another. We never did a classic double time where you ran. We were taught to do the "Airborne Shuffle": your boot didn't completely break contact with the ground - It was used in Airborne training to move men and heavy packs long distances. Faster than walking or marching, less tiring than running. We were also trained to change the way we climbed hills: Stop using calf muscles and keep your feet angled - use your large thigh muscles to move up the hill. Save the calf for when you needed to cover ground fast - such as under fire. One day late in the cycle my DS told me that I was going to go before a Board made up of senior NCO's including the Command SGT Major for the base. He had submitted me for an award and gave me on piece of advice: If you need a couple more moments to answer a question, restate the question. It's worked forme everytime. I used it, especially when the CSM asked what I thought of the Vietnam War and what I would do if sent. He warned against giving some "college boy answer." I told him the truth - diplomatically: I didn't know if the war was being fought for the right or wrong reasons. I had to trust that the government got it right. I would do my job, whatever it turned out to be, and count on the men around me to do the same since we were in it together. I became the Outstanding Soldier of the Brigade for my training cycle. My DS apologized, telling me that he thought it was for a leadership award not the one I got. I have used his advice often when arguing motions before skeptical judges.
As we approached the last couple weeks orders started dribbling in. I was told that I wasn’t likely to draw 11 Bravo (infantry) but if I got a combat MOS I should anticipate getting sent to "shake and bake school "to be sent to Nam as a buck sergeant. When my orders came they were for tracked vehicle driver school at Ft. Knox. My DS told me that he was sorry, that at that time it meant armored personnel carriers which were being destroyed in large numbers and replacements were in high demand. I must have let my parents know because I got change orders sending me to basic clerk school at Ft Dix. That unit was bad. All but a dozen of us were reservists who could not be held over or they would become eligible for the Gl Bill. One was an NBA player who was there about 2 days a week. He played on the unit's basketball team when he was in town. I had a three day pass and caught a ride with a CID man from the high school class ahead of me when flights out of Syracuse were canceled in a blizzard. He was dropping his girlfriend off and returning to Dix. He dropped me off at my barracks about 3 am on Monday and made sure I had his phone number. I signed in, went to bed and soon learned why I had his number. At morning formation the 1st SGT, who couldn't keep his pants bloused or boots tied, read a list of missing soldiers. I was one. After going to the office and correcting it I went to training. Tuesday: repeat. Wednesday: rinse and repeat. I called Kevin who told me to call him again before 5.1 called and he told me that he didn't expect that I would have any more trouble. In fact, I probably could go AWOL and get a month head start before they looked for me. He had gone in and chewed out the 1 SGT and the CO who he said was known to him as an incompetent. CID wore plainclothes and had no rank on their ID.
The CO insisted on everyone passing the PT test given in Basic again. The Reservists knew they couldn't be held and treated it all with the appropriate disdain. I forget what the passing score was. Our average was a small fraction of it, given that the Reservists mostly ran the mile backward, managed a couple sit ups within the time allowed, etc. They all left and the CO made the few of us who remained (less than 12) do it over and threatened to do it daily as a group until we all passed. It had rained and the ground had frozen for the low crawl. We did just enough to pass after deciding we didn't want to call in the CID or have to spend extra time there. I went into a holding pattern waiting for an assignment. I had tried to apply for an additional school - Personnel Management Specialist. I spent several weeks sorting out orders for men leaving Basic. The SSG running the office had a lucrative side hustle selling bags of paper dots from punching holes in thousands of sheets of Orders per week as wedding confetti.. I had access to personnel records and learned that the volunteers for Airborne were consistently CAT IV (lowest rating on the Armed Forces Qualification test). One of my last days before I got my own orders I got a set for an 0-3 leaving Basic. A Captain. I went to the SSG who told me he had been expecting them and told me to set the copies for the unit and individual aside. A day later he showed up, an attorney bound for JAG school, got his orders and went off to have his uniform issued. A few days later he showed up again. He told me that he had reported the training unit for abusing troops in Basic and had been allowed to lead the MP's into the Company headquarters when they went in to arrest everyone from the CO to the troop pushers. The clerk was let off with a warning to report violations by seniors. The CPT said that the look on their faces when they saw his rank was icing on the cake. Soon afterward I got orders to attend the Personnel Management school at Ft. Benjamin Harrison outside Indianapolis.
Ft Ben Harrison was a step up from the clerk school at Dix, but a small one. The Course was a night school starting in the late evening and ending around 2 am. We were in old wooden barracks again, but with large individual wall lockers. We were locked in until lunch but the 1SG made us get up for reveille, clean the barracks, make the bunks, hold an inspection and locked the door behind him with the warning that getting back in bed would get an Article 15. After the first week of school they told us that we were the anniversary class for the MOS, that the first two classes went to Southeast Asia and we should expect similar orders. The curriculum consisted mostly of regulations governing promotions, unit tables of organization (manpower), tours, eligibility requirements for promotion, administrative punishment from unit (Article 15) through HQ (Administrative Eliminations). You might want to remember this was often heard often preceded by a foot strike as the info was given. The Army trained Finance Officers there so we amused ourselves by stringing ourselves out on the way to and from lunch as we passed the officers leaving their classrooms. We were far enough apart that they couldn't hold a salute and had to address us individually. After a couple weeks the smarter ones just hung out by the doors when they saw us coming since it was well back from the street.
Orders began to dribble in as soon as we passed the last exam. People went to Germany, Korea, stateside locations, until there were only four of us left. We were threatened with courts martial if we contacted the DOD women who handled the orders. We took them cookies and spent over two weeks painting rocks. We were the top of the class and had been promised promotions. I went to the 1SG and he refused to sign off, making it clear I would face discipline if I complained to the school which used it as an inducement to stay awake. Eventually the four of us were on the same order to report to HQ USARAL. The DOD folks had to look it up: Unites States Army Alaska. We were issued travel orders and went home. I got married and took a brief honeymoon. I flew to Seattle and took a bus to Ft. Lewis dragging my bags with the worst hangover I ever had. We were assembled on a large parade ground that was under cheap plastic panels to block rain. Someone walked down the ranks asking if anyone could type. No one was reacting. I must have twitched. He pulled me out of line with a "Follow me." We had invaded Cambodia. They needed clerks to type change orders sending soldiers to SE Asia instead of where they expected to go. I ended up typing a lot of aircraft manifests/orders listing people on the military contract flights (MACV). I got one with my name on it which was still for Alaska, completed it in 3 copies, got them signed and kept one. Many hours had passed and I eventually found my way to the parade ground where the only thing in sight was my gear. I wandered around until I got an idea of where to go and found out that they were about to report me as AWOL. Seemed to be my pattern. I got to the plane, seated near the rear and could have mistaken it for a theater: Double aisles, narrow seats that went forward row after row to the cabin bulkhead. When it took off you looked up at the first row from the back. We landed at Anchorage and a SP5 got on and announced he was looking for 4 new Personnel Management Specialists. We and our gear were unloaded and he explained that we were all going to interview for the slot at HQ USARAL, three would interview at HQ, Ft Richardson, where both HQ's were located. Then 2 would fly north of the Alaska Range to Fairbanks and interview at HQ Ft. Wainwright. The ultimate loser would go to Ft Greely which was an unaccompanied tour where they tested clothing and equipment for use in the Arctic. I don't remember anything about the interview except that I got the USARAL slot and went to the HQ Co. barracks where I shared a cubicle. No outlets, no TV in the building, a bed like I had in Basic. That first day I was surprised to hear a rumble from the floor above that sounded like a floor hockey game moving down a hallway in a Dartmouth dorm. It was my first earthquake.
'We are in this together" became the motto of my class at U of Pa law school which had many veterans, second occupation men and women. Stupid rules were ignored, a student bookstore was started underselling the Univ and a copy service set up that the profs used because it was cheaper, research materials for repeated projects went onto a bookshelf we bought and weren't hidden or destroyed. Law review members with didactic memories - including a peace corps member whose typed final exams were posted along with the profs sample answers - attended study groups before finals. We learned that the classes after us returned to the old "every man for themself with much higher straight from college content.
A Prof who had attended under the Gl Bill after landing at Normandy and fighting into Germany as an infantryman told us that we were the first class he had seen like his. The only difference was that they had to stay in the dorms which had rules against alcohol and no women after a set hour. They laughed at them and the Dean who tried to enforce the rules.