The All American Division
The flight from Pensacola, Florida to Fayetteville, North Carolina was routed through Atlanta, Georgia. A change of planes in Atlanta was required and short talk with other passengers resulted in being told “if you are going to heaven or hell” you will have to go through Atlanta. Dressed in the Army’s summer uniform with the traditional bloused boots adorned by Paratroopers, made being inconspicuous difficult. With less than thirty days being back “in the world” vigilance and caution is automatic when in crowds. Add the ordinary noise level within a major airport terminal and a recent combat veteran automatically ramps into a “flight or fight” mode. Relaxation is not on the menu, mandating a stoic, stand tall, type composure. Just as it is on the battlefield a solid “command presence” is mandatory for survival.
Arrival in Fayetteville was uneventful. A thirty-minute cab ride to Ft. Bragg ended at the 82nd Airborne Division’s replacement center. Traveling down Ft. Bragg boulevard I made mental notes regarding my new city of residence. A drive-in theater, numerous fast food choices, bars and clubs, pawnshops, and car lots pretty much set the tone. Checking into Division reception barracks resulted in temporary room assignments and receipt of instructions for processing. After two days of standing in line, completing forms, and burning time, my follow on assignment was decided. B Co., 2nd of the 325th, 82nd Airborne Division would be my home for the upcoming year. Arrival at B. Company’s orderly room evolved into quick introductions to B. Co.‘s acting First Sergeant and Commanding Officer. A short time later I was advised that the 3rd platoon needed a Platoon Sgt. and that I would be assigned to the billet.
Following morning arrived and I stood in front of the 3rd platoon in morning formation. As our 1st. Sgt. brought the company to attention, each platoon sgt. reported the customary “all present and accounted for”. After the 2nd platoon sgt reported I followed by saying “all present and accounted for..” and a pause came. The acting 1st Sgt (SFC Elder) started
asking where a certain trooper was and before allowing time for a reply he inquired about a second trooper. After a period of time, he moved on to the 4th platoon and then dismissed the company. It did not take but a second for me to realize that SFC Elder had set me up. Without a doubt, he knew I had not met the 3rd platoon squad leaders much less the individual
troopers. As I moved towards Elder he managed to enter the barracks and orderly room before I caught up with him. When I arrived in the orderly room he was behind his desk and the room was full of troopers trying to get one thing or another accomplished.
Through my anger I could still see that Elder was avoiding eye contact with me, so I quickly moved to a position close to him. When he looked up I loudly and aggressively asked “what the f — — k is up” with morning formation. As he attempted to ignore me I told him he “needed to get his ass into the Captain’s office”. At the same time, I entered the C.O.’s office, without knocking and loudly informed the Captain that “your !st. Sgt. is not going to disrespect me” regardless of the situation. The Captain as well as Elder looked astonished and did not immediately respond. After the Captain put his hand up and said “I will take care of it” I spun around and left the orderly room. As I exited a senior Staff Sergeant made a remark that I did not clearly hear. However, because of the look he gave me I responded by telling him he could also “f — — k off”.
After arriving at 3rd. platoon’s assigned room I summoned all four squad leaders. I was still angry but was able to control my voice when instructing the squad leaders, that accountability of each trooper needs to be confirmed and relayed to me prior to morning formations. After a short cool off I talked individually with each squad leader. After talking to two of them an “illumination round exploded within my brain”. A short time later realization identified the entire morning’s events as a “black vs white issue”. After an elapse of two more days the entire picture with SFC Elder was clear. Elder was a black soldier and had close to twenty years in the Army. I was a white soldier with two years in the Army. As a side kicker, the issue of being twenty years of age only inflamed the situation. Once I discovered that the 3rd. platoon’s Sgt., that I replaced, was Elder’s “close buddy”, all
confusion evaporated. The home run arrived when I discovered that the black soldier I encountered leaving the orderly room, was the same rank as me and that he had twenty years in the Army. It was August at Ft. Bragg and the heat and humidity did little to ease my frustration and anger. Adding to my now blurry vision of the Army was the absurdity that I had three more weeks before I could legally buy a beer.
First week of September arrived with a Division announcement that potential deployment was possible. Limited information was available but what was received revealed that a combat airborne assault was potentially in our future. Of all locations, the country of Jordan was the target area and the rescuing of American hostages was supposedly the mission. First course of business was identified as an airborne drop in Jordan to secure an airfield. Discussions with my platoon leader revealed that the Lieutenant had not yet attended jump school, so he along with others would arrive after the airfield was secured. Not wanting to discuss a question with my command resulted in me calling my father and asking “where is Jordan” and finished with me saying “don’t tell anyone that I called”.
A bit of anxiety developed, so I inquired with the Battalion Sgt Maj. about my physical profile for the gunshot wound to my right shoulder. A flash thought that a little understanding would occur I followed with “I can’t pull my reserve parachute”. A quick smile appeared and the Sgt Maj. put his hand on my shoulder and walked me outside. Once outside he said “son don’t worry about your reserve” and then followed by saying “combat jumps are executed at five hundred feet“ so if your main does not open you won’t have time to pull your reserve. Last instruction given was ‘saddle up soldier, you don’t want to miss this jump”.
Preparations for deployment continued. Phone lines in and out of our company area were disconnected and razor wire was positioned to block travel in or out of our billeting area. Four days elapsed before a stand-down order was given. Relief was immediate for I had utilized the days to evaluate individual soldiers in my platoon. The prospect of combat with all but a few of the soldiers reminded me of what my Special Forces roommate at Camp Zama had said, “go stateside and see what the real Army is all about”. September 7, 1971, was now my focus for my three-year term of enlistment would expire on that day.
Weather at Ft. Bragg had turned from summer to fall. Training time in the field was the norm for our company. Amazingly training schedules were put together by inexperienced junior officers. One did not have to be told that inexperienced personnel scheduled training for summer hot periods involved patrol techniques, compass courses, and combat assaults. Moving for long periods and speed were the lessons. During cold frigid weather we would conduct stationary exercises such as ambush techniques, perimeter defense, and other activities conducive to freezing and being miserable. It was standardly understood “it is the Army way and it was not supposed to make sense”.
Two specific training instances come to mind. The first involved a winter exercise wherein night temperatures hovered in the low 30-degree range. Sleeping involved the use of “mummy style” sleeping bags that were designed for inclement weather. Hardship came at first light when getting up, dressed, and squared away was the goal. Unmotivated soldiers are always a pain, however first light brings drama for it involves waking soldiers and getting them out of their “snug as a bug: sleeping” bags. Reluctance is the least of your worry for occasionally an outright refusal had to be dealt with.
This particular morning I made three trips around our position waking soldiers and getting them up and ready to roll. Hot chow was being served and time was the enemy. Soldiers that dragged at first light missed their hot chow. I missed my chow due to having to make sure stragglers were up and moving. Once chow was shut down morning formation was called. As we all came to attention, 3rd platoon’s Lieutenant slipped up behind me and asked why a soldier missed chow. I respond by moving in front of the alleged hungry soldier and saying I woke everyone and if you missed chow it is on you. This particular strike, squared away, private responded by saying “I don’t want to hear that shit sarge”. Before the word Sarge was
completed I hit the private in the mouth hard enough to knock him back from the second squad to the fourth squad. As the trooper landed I moved forward for another strike. Two squad leaders, however, pulled me back and as they did I managed to kick the soldier in the mouth. My anger flash subsided as quickly as it had erupted. Once back in formation I realized the Lieutenant had slipped quietly out of view. My thought was that I hoped he understood, just how stupid he had been, to query me about the hungry private in the manner he did. Return to base was followed by downtime. Reflection on what happened, with hitting the private was worrisome. My anger had slowly progressed to rage and with it a blind reaction had occurred.
Coping with anger or rage, with a lack of understanding of the causes, was futile. My Mother had once said that I “had a guardian angel on my shoulder”. My belief is that the angel’s presence allowed me safe passage through difficult and potentially treacherous times. It also allowed for the emergence of a degree of control, which finally resulted in a somewhat acceptable level of reaction to the rage burning in my soul.
Secondly, a training exercise involving an airborne drop also resounds with memories. As we massed to load our jump aircraft, the jumpmaster informed us that the winds on the drop zone were extreme. He further advised that we were not going to jump but we were riding the aircraft through their drop procedures. Three C-130 aircraft, loaded with troops, then left Pope Air Base en route to Luzon drop zone. Normal levels of anxiety were not present among the troops for an actual jump was not anticipated. As the first aircraft maneuvered to drop altitude the second and third followed. I was. along with the rest of my platoon, on the second aircraft. Normal jump commands were issued so “hook up” and “stand in the door” resounded. Normal attention and focus was not present for “high winds and no jump” were our last instructions.
Suddenly the red light at the exit door turned green. Immediate reaction caused two sticks of paratroopers to exit the side doors. My mind was having difficulty in comprehending why when I exited the aircraft’s door. As
I felt the opening shock of my chute all I could see was four huge prop engines, belonging to the third C-130 in our formation, driving hard directly at me. Pure reaction kicked in as I pulled on my risers to cause a slip for lower altitude. As I pulled, my eyes closed for I truly believed that the end was near. Several seconds elapsed and my eyes opened. Momentary relief quickly faded for my chute was quickly traveling laterally. As I looked down I realized the wind had already blown me away from the landing zone and I was approaching trees. Before I was completely prepared the ground rushed up and I hit hard, knocking me breathless. As I tried to recover my chute again inflated and the wind started dragging me sideways. Managing to role to my back allowed for the unbuckling of one riser and the deflation of my chute.
A short physical assessment told me I was at least not crippled. As I gathered my parachute my mind was still saying “we aren’t jumping today.” When I managed to traverse the drop zone I joined up with a small group of soldiers. A quick count revealed that only one stick of troopers in the second plane jumped. No troops dropped from the first lead aircraft of the third trail plane. As we sat down on our chutes and gear a jeep arrived with a driver and the Executive Officer (XO) of the Battalion. The XO immediately displayed anger and demanded to know who was in charge. All I could think of was “hell, I don;t care who is in charge, I want to know what happened.” The yelling continued with the XO saying “your tactical” act like you are and move off the drop zone. As I drug my chute and gear off the drop area all I could focus on was “I am tactical now” but in a little over a month, I will be a non-tactical civilian college student.
Army tradition in the 60’s and 70’s dictated that uniforms, to include fatigues, were to be freshly cleaned and starched. As a result, all troopers visited cleaners regularly to drop off and pick up their uniforms. I followed the lead of another soldier and utilized “Lola’s Cleaners” located a short distance from the back gate of Bragg, adjacent to the 82nd Div. area. It was late August and I had visited Lola”s several times, dropping off and picking up laundry. The woman who owned the cleaners was originally from Germany and had married an Army member resulting in a relocation to the U.S. On this particular day, a young girl was working behind the counter helping Lola. A brief conversation revealed that the girl’s name was Linda and that she was Lola’s daughter. Linda was eighteen and had recently graduated from high school. Her hair was blond with light brown accents and was worn pulled back. Eyes were a light blue, her voice, mannerisms, and smile transferred warmth and kindness. Almost immediately, I was uncharacteristically attracted to her. As a result hesitation and nervousness set in making asking her for a date difficult.
After leaving the cleaners I went to my car and attempted to reinforce my confidence. While sitting in my car my brilliant 20-year-old mind dictated my next move. Reentering the cleaners, I told Linda I had misplaced my car keys and asked if she could help in finding them. Once she came outside to assist, I told her “I didn’t really lose my keys”. Follow on explanation involved explaining “I actually wanted to ask you out but did not want to ask in front of others.” She responded with a smile and agreed to a date.
Pulling into the Fayetteville Drive Inn was a big deal. Having a date made it a huge deal. The whipped cream was added when I realized the movie was “Woodstock.” A little Jimmy Hendrix, along with Janis Joplin and others made for a classic first date. Being physically close to my newfound friend ignited a spark which quickly flamed. An unbelievable embrace followed by a first kiss set the train moving. Taking Linda home after our date caused my mind to race. The train had definitely left the station and now speed control was my objective.
A second and third get-together only strengthened the attraction. Difficulty with focus during Army hours followed. Some relief came when Linda told me that she was leaving Fayetteville for school soon. Atlanta, Ga. was her destination with Dentist Assistant school being the goal. Linda’s departure for school left a serious void within me. Regular visits to
Atlanta followed as did contacts with her mother Lola. On one such visit to Lola’s laundry, a mother’s concern was relayed. Words of caution were spoken wherein I attempted to ease the load by saying “don’t worry, followed by I care about your daughter” and my intent is “honorable”. As I left and drove towards Atlanta the word “honorable” resonated in my young brain. Honor on the battlefield had been embedded into my soul. Connotations relating to “honorable actions” with Linda however, were more elusive. Finally, resolution was found by making a commitment to “respect and protect” my new friend Linda.
Arrival in Atlanta was late and the temperature had dropped to freezing. Finding Linda’s school was not difficult, as I pulled into a parking place she exited her dorm and entered my car. Short conversation ensued and Linda immediately curled up into my lap. Emotions raced and while holding her she confidently said “I love you.” It was a short drive to where we would stay for the weekend. The Holiday Inn on Peachtree Street was convenient and comfortable. Registration was quick and easy for military identification carried a degree of consideration. We were both tired and the hour was moving into midnight. I was already in bed when Linda came from the bath area, dressed in a large white T-shirt. Once she laid next to me the attraction and passion moved to “off the chart”. It was as if a huge warm wave swept over the both of us, causing mind-numbing exhilaration, followed by comfort and extreme peace. Slowly reality returned and with it the realization that we had both had our first “real deal” sexual encounter.
The remainder of the weekend zoomed by. Walks in city parks, window shopping small specialty stores, and eating at various restaurants immediately required my return to Ft. Braff. Driving time was lengthy and arrival at my unit was early a.m. Movement to the field followed, simulated combat scenarios and physical training activities, crashed down on my body. Fatigue was now an issue and on one occasion a short break resulted in a sit down — rollover, and a micro nap. My third year of soldiering was quickly turning into a diversion, pulling me away from what I really wanted to do. Conflict came when questions about “what I wanted to do” merged with a desire to escape. A lack of maturity reinforced by a lack of understanding “what was happening” left me unprepared to successfully navigate my life. Surviving and moving forward became my focus.
An early December telephone call from Linda rocked my already unstable foundation. The words “in a family way” ricocheted like machine gunfire. Brain waves raced and a visit to Lola caused serious contemplation of the word “honorable”. Immediate decision was the acceptance of responsibility and all that follows. Conversations with Linda identified hesitancy and efforts to pen down the causes were difficult, Best guess was age and not wanting to completely commit. Offers of marriage accompanied by discussions of reenlistment followed. Finally, my approach was to make sure she and her mother knew that I would support whatever decision was made.
New Years' eve 1971 placed me at a small hospital adjacent to the downtown area of Fayetteville. Linda’s room was located on the third floor. Efforts to maintain an upbeat visit were hampered by an aura of sadness. It had been Linda’s decision but the impact slammed all involved. I stayed past visiting hours into the New Year. Celebration obviously not on the agenda. Once she fell asleep I quietly slipped out of the room and into the hallway. Immediately, I heard a woman’s voice say “it is past visiting hours” followed by demands to know what I was doing. Fight was not appropriate so flight took me to the end of the hall and to an outside access stairwell. A quick trip down three flights of stairs, a short run to my car, and an exit from the parking area was accomplished quickly.
A twenty-minute drive back to Ft. Bragg resulted in a flood of emotions. Tears were needed but not available for a combat soldier cannot allow such to occur. Arrival at Ft. Bragg was uneventful however entry into my designated barracks was not. A short flight of stairs led to the entry door. On the stairwell sat two soldiers I knew. One was a complete loss as a soldier and as a person. The second was young and easily influenced. Both had syringes in the crook of their arms and as I passed their eyes and body told the tale. Heroin use was rampant within the 82nd Airborne Div. and these two soldiers were celebrating the New Year.
A flash thought raced through my mind. One year earlier, New Years' eve 1970, I laid in a distant rain-soaked jungle with my ambush team. About two minutes after midnight a full-grown tiger broke the brush and ran through our ambush position. Shock and fear does not do justice to the emotional or physical impact of the incident. One consolation did evolve, no soldier had been dragged through the jungle or killed. Knowing now that ambushing in the jungle was preferable to being in the 82nd impacted like a stray bullet.
Immediately after entering my room, I laid down in an attempt to sleep. Hard sleep never arrived and at daylight, I quickly assessed my situation. No enemy threats were identified but the faint trails of demons were seen. My thoughts centered on controlling my inner rage and methods to decompress. Confusion was growing for a full understanding of all was not accessible. Keeping myself together and forward movement became my focus.
In the second week of January Linda returned to school in Atlanta. Graduation resulted in her return to Fayetteville. Our relationship continued however, subtle changes did occur. My feelings for her remained constant, Linda’s feelings and attachment to me grew stronger. By early September Linda was attempting to encourage my reenlistment. My course however had already been determined. Sadness prevailed for me as I pondered my previous offer of marriage and security by reenlistment.
On the 7th of September, 1971 I was discharged from the U.S. Army. Saying goodbye to Linda was more difficult than anything I had done in my young life. A vision of her blue eyes flooding with tears has endured time. Fifty years have now passed since my service with the 82nd. Periodic visits to Fayetteville always bring a rush of memories back. Along with those memories a quiet prayer is said for Linda, her mother, and the loss of what could have been.
Comfort and peace will not be achieved, when reflections of my service in Vietnam and the 82nd occur. However, the passage of time has thankfully lessened the sadness and pain.
“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, it is about learning to dance in the rain.”
