Marches, Medals and Martyrs

I wake up to bright lights and lots of yelling so I look at my watch and its 5:30 in the morning. My body wants to just rollover and go back to sleep but my head says get up before the drill sergeant comes down the aisle. For the last 3 months I have been a resident in the C company barracks at Fort Campbell , Kentucky. I am sleeping in the lower level of bunk beds and above me is Tommy Rowland now a good friend and fellow soldier in the US Army. There are 45,000 soldiers stationed at Fort Campbell and most of us have come to realize that the sole purpose of our training has been to effectively kill someone and not to get killed.
Tommy is climbing out of his bunk and looks my way and warns me that the Sergeant is only seconds away and the last thing you want is to be caught in bed.
I jump out of bed just in time and act like I am getting dressed and ready to go. We have 15 minutes to use the bathroom and be dressed for inspection and roll call. We are all a little tired from lack of sleep. At 2:30 this morning one of the other soldiers decided to eat a light bulb from one of the barracks light fixtures. His thinking is that this will get him a medical discharge. All it did for us was shorten the night because of all the commotion of people coming to take him away. As we fall in for roll call a jeep pulls up in front of the company and the poor soul that ate the light bulb climbs out with a company commander. The lieutenant instructs him to get in position for roll call and informs us that Private “so and so” ate a light bulb last night in an attempt to get out of the Army and he now owes the government 60 cents and it will be taken out of his pay check. The drill sergeant barks out orders for us to fall into formation for a 2 mile run before breakfast and another day in the Army begins.
At breakfast everyone is watching the guy that ate the light bulb and he seems to still have an appetite. After breakfast, which lasts only 30 minutes, we fall into formation for calisthenics which consists of push-ups, chin-ups , jumping jacks and a whole list of other exercises. We again fall into formation and the drill sergeant informs us that we are going to march to the rifle range and re-qualify on the new M16 rifles. We spent three days at the range last month and qualified on the M14 rifle and that was quite a spectacle. Coming from Wyoming and living with a family of hunters and having considerable experience with rifles, I found qualifying as a sharpshooter relative easy. Unfortunately I was definitely a minority. Most of the other soldiers had not only never handled a gun but hadn’t even seen one. After hours of instructions we are standing in a trench and our rifles are all facing down range towards the targets. As they come down the firing line they issue each man one bullet ( right out of a Barney Fife script). Half of the firing line drop the bullet when trying to load the chamber of the rifle. When thy reach over to look for it, rifle barrels are pointing every direction and drill sergeants are running up and down the line yelling, and the more they yell the more chaotic it becomes. After things settle down and everyone learns how to load the rifle and keep it pointing down range we are to fire one shot at a target 50 yards in front of us. We are instructed not to fire until we hear the command. Just before the command is given more rifles go off and more yelling and chaos ensues. By the end of the day, out of 100 men, we are down to only about 3 going off accidentally. By the end of the second day we are able to be issued full clips and can shoot at multiple targets. On the third day a scorekeeper with binoculars sits behind you and scores hits on targets at varying distances. If you hit them all you are awarded a sharpshooters medal to proudly wear on your uniform. The only thing I learned was out of 100 men there is about 5 of them that I will never let behind me with a loaded gun.
The M16 rifle has a shorter barrel and a plastic handle. As I pick out targets to hit I notice that it is not very accurate after 50 yards and almost a third of the firing line is having trouble with jam ups. Thankfully we are not scored on accuracy just capabilities.
Tommy Rowlands family lives in Paducah, Kentucky which is only about a 90 minute drive from Fort Campbell. Tommy has decided that we should get a week-end pass and his dad will pick us up and we can spend the weekend in Paducah.
We get our passes and Tommy’s dad meets us at the gate at 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. The ride to Paducah is just beautiful .The dogwoods are in bloom and Paducah is one of the prettiest small towns in Kentucky. I get to meet Tommy’s family and friends and when the word gets out that I am from Wyoming and a cowboy, all of the neighborhood comes over to visit. We are treated like Kings for the whole day and night. Sunday morning at breakfast Tommy’s mom tells us that on our way back to the fort we will stop at her sisters place to meet her niece. Tommy’s cousin was runner-up to Miss Kentucky and they are all quite proud of her. The day goes fast and on the way back we stop in some small town to meet Tommy’s relatives and the beauty queen. The girl is pretty enough but she won’t stop talking and talking and talking. The family is quite proud of her, but I’m sitting there thinking that they are all lucky Joan doesn’t live in Kentucky because this girl would have been in third place and then they wouldn’t have anything to talk about. We talk Tommy’s dad into swinging through Nashville on the way back to the fort. Tommy and I have decided to get a day pass next weekend and go to the Grand Old Opry in Nashville. We want to see if any ticket offices are open and if there is a billboard to say who is playing there next weekend. Tommy’s dad is at first reluctant but finally concedes. As we exit into Nashville and get close to the Opry building I start to realize why his dad did not jump at the chance to go there. It is a really rough part of down with old buildings that mostly closed up, a lot of poverty and really dirty streets.
We pull up in front of the old Ryman Auditorium building but can’t find a ticket office. The billboard says Johnny Cash will be performing next weekend. We still plan on being there next weekend but assure Tommy’s dad that the Army bus will take us to the front door and pick us up as soon as the show is over.
The following week at the post is typical training and exercises. We are getting close to finishing and everyone is waiting to see where they will be transferred. Thursday evening Tommy and I head over to the PX to buy some treats and stop at the NCO club on the way back to the barracks. Just as we find a table and sit down four MPs bust through the front door, shut the music off and order everyone to report back to their company barracks immediately. As we cross the drill fields to get to our barracks the whole post is on alert and many companies are already taking formation on the other end of the parade grounds. As we get to our company’s barracks the drill sergeants are barking out orders. Everyone is ordered to have on their fatigues, jackets , helmets and rifles and be in formation out front in 5 minutes. Rumors are flying and no one really knows what is going on. After formation we are marched to the parade grounds and fall in with thousands of other soldiers. The word comes down that Martin Luther King was murdered in Memphis and there are riots in all the major cities. The city of Nashville has asked the Army for help and we are headed for the city. Trucks and buses pull up and we are loaded up like cattle and driven into the city. Officers are in jeeps and Army vehicles are leading and following the caravan into the city. We unload in downtown Nashville. It looks like a high school or college inter-mural field. Only about a quarter of the trucks and buses that left the post are here, so the rest have gone somewhere else in the city. There are about a thousand of us and we take formation and start marching down the back streets of Nashville. The area looks a lot like the neighborhood of the Grand Old Opry …poor, dirty and scary. The regiment breaks up in four different units and we each take different streets. I look forward and can see a glow in the sky from fires about 6 to 8 blocks in front of us. I don’t have any idea what part of the city we are in, but I keep thinking around the next corner I will see the Billboard in front of the Opry building with Johnny Cash staring at us. The air is full of smoke, fire trucks and police cars are everywhere, and the sirens are making everyone nervous. We were not issued any live ammo but the trucks following us were fully loaded. After spending the time on the rifle range with these men, I’m glad that the guns aren’t loaded. The streets are empty and everyone is anxiously looking at every roof top, every darkened building, and every dark alley. We are now about 3 blocks from the fires lighting up the smoky night. We come to a halt and stand in formation for about an hour. We then change directions and march down other streets. I never get any closer to the fires and never see anyone. At the break of dawn we are back at the trucks that brought us to Nashville and we are hauled back to the post. Roll call is at 6 a.m. and it’s just another day in the Army.
All weekend passes are canceled and Tommy and I spend the weekend on post and talk about our night in Nashville. The next Monday I get orders to transfer to Fort Sill , Oklahoma for Field Artillery training and Tuesday, Tommy gets orders to transfer to Fort Benning, Georgia for infantry training. Eighty Five percent of the soldiers that go to Fort Benning end up in Viet Nam but only about forty percent of Artillery units get shipped to Nam. Both Tommy I know what this means and don’t talk about it. By the end of the week we have both gone our separate ways and I never see Tommy again.
In 1983 I am asked to attend a conference in Washington DC regarding livestock identification systems using radio frequency transmitters. I am the proud owner of a patent on this subject and receive an all expense paid trip to DC. After the meetings one evening I walk over to the Viet Nam War memorial and am emotionally moved by its impact. Not wanting to find it, I look for Tommy’s name etched into the black granite amongst the over 58,000 names on those black walls. I do not find it and find comfort that he is probably enjoying life in Paducah.

My Best Friend and Dead Men's Bones

Coaly was a black cocker spaniel and he was the family dog. I can’t remember him as a pup so I think he was around before me. To my father he was a great hunting companion. I remember going pheasant hunting with them and Coaly was indeed a good hunting dog. He would put his nose to the ground and go into cattails and weeds where a human couldn’t walk. He could smell a pheasant and would work the weed patch until the bird would take flight. I remember one trip where Coaly was on the track of a pheasant in some heavy brush and it would not take flight. It would just keep running. Coaly finally got impatient and just lunged on top of the bird and brought it to Dad and me. We had one pheasant in the bag without firing a shot.

My earliest memories of Coaly go back to grade school. He would follow Russ and me to school. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get him to turn back and go home. I
I don’t know how long he would sit out in front of the school before he would give up and go back home. Early in the school year I would get to sit in the back of the class next to the windows but eventually the teacher would move me up front because I would spend too much time staring out the windows daydreaming. I remember one school day staring out the window that overlooked the school playground. There was Coaly sitting next to the big slide, just waiting . He finally gave up, relieved himself on the bottom of the slide and headed home. I made a mental note not to be the first to go down that slide at recess.

The family eventually moved 4 miles out of town so we now lived in the country. To Coaly and me this was the just the freedom we needed. Whenever Russ and I would go on an adventure old Coaly was at our side. On this particular day we were heading to the Sand Draw. The Sand Draw was created by a stream of water that flowed through very sandy hills and it eventually eroded into a deep canyon and ravine. At the upper end of the draw where we were headed , the canyon was very narrow and very deep. Enroute a blue belly lizard scampered across our path so the chase was on. Russ and I would occasionally catch these lizards and take them home. We would keep them around the house until Mom would find them and then they would disappear. You had to be careful trying to catch a lizard. They would run under rocks and when you lifted the rock to grab them there would be a couple of scorpions waiting for you. This lizard ran into a clump of sage brush and so we circled the bush and was sure that we had it cornered. Just as we were moving in old Coaly goes crazy and starts barking and even nipping at us. Just as I bent over to pick up a rock to throw at that crazy dog I see the rattle snake sitting under the sagebrush. This is one lizard that we are going to leave alone.

We finally arrive at the canyon. This canyon is so narrow at the beginning that you can jump across it. It is 15 to 20 feet deep, flows for about a quarter mile and then falls over a waterfall for another 15 feet. The water in the bottom of it is running very fast and is pure white. When you jumped across, you wanted to make sure you would make it to the other side because the ride down that canyon and over that waterfall would not be pleasant. Old Coaly must have felt young that day and tried to jump across but he didn’t even come close. He bounced off the other side and fell straight down into that rushing water. Russ and I run along the side of the canyon watching him tumble over rocks and eventually go flying over the waterfall. We are not sure that he can live through that and run to find a way down to the bottom. We finally get down and get to the pool at the bottom of the waterfall and there is Coaly shaking himself off and acting if nothing happened.

We decide to follow the canyon on down to where it falls into the Shoshone River and walk home from there. As we round the corner we can see where the east side of the canyon has caved in. The high run off we had this spring has changed the direction of the stream and it has carved a new route. As we climb the canyon wall to go around the cave in, the skeleton of a human hand is sticking out of the wall. We look above us and on the wall are more human bones. As we climb out of the canyon to see what is going on, we come across two old wooden caskets. When the river changed routes it cut through the corner of the old Lutheran cemetery and several graves had gone over the side with the cave in. I knew that Willie Korrel was a Lutheran and lived close by. We head for Willie’s place . We meet Willie on the road in his pickup and tell him our story. Russ and Coaly and I jump in the back of his pickup and head back to the cemetery. Willie says he will take care of it and offers us a ride home. As we jump out of the pickup at our house, Willie says that’s a nice looking dog. We say yep, he is a good dog.

That next winter my Dad accidentally ran over Coaly and killed him. It is the only time I saw my father cry.

Mud Balls, Polecats and Prunes

Half awake and half asleep, I can feel myself sliding lower in the seat of the tractor. A loud ping sound on the tractor’s metal fenders brings me to a full awakening. Wilford has thrown a rock at me to wake me up. I am sitting in line waiting to fuel my tractor and Will is in front of me fueling his .We are heading to the Robertson place to cut and rake our last hayfield.

Will’s tractor has a side cutter on it and mine has the rake. He will cut the hay and I will follow and rake it into a windrow for the baler. After the hay dries a little, it will be baled and then we will come back and haul the baled hay on trucks back to the feedlot. Cutting and raking is the easy part. Hauling hay is the most miserable job on the ranch and I hate it with a passion.
As Will pulls out and heads up the lane, I start to fuel my tractor. The cutter needs a fifteen minute head start before I can start raking. I arrive at the field and Will still needs a bit more time to get far enough ahead. It gives me just enough time to stop under the plum trees that border the west edge of the field. I pick more plums than I can carry and stuff them under the seat. They will be a tasty snack while I rake this field. We are about half done and everything has run smoothly.

The afternoon sun has gotten hot and the cool moist plums taste good. I have eaten most of the plums I gathered, and I start thinking that the next time I pass the edge of the field I will gather some more. Wilford is about fifty feet to the right of me as we pass each other in the middle of the field on every revolution. As I reach the end of the field and make my pivot I can see that Will has stopped at the other end of the field next to the ditch. He most likely has hit something with the cutter and has to pull it out of the blades. I can see the diesel smoke from his tractor and can tell that he has started cutting again.

As we pass each other in the middle of the field and as I daydream of those cool moist plums , I catch the glimpse of an object coming toward me. It is a big, gooey , black mud ball. Wilford did not have a breakdown, he stopped at the ditch and made mud balls to hurl at me as I pass by. Now a barrage of mud balls are coming at me. They splatter against the tractor and I get sprayed with mud, but incur no direct hits. THIS IS WAR!!

I am soon out of range and when I get to that end of the field , I stop and load up on mud balls. As I make my pivot and head back up the field I can see that Will is reloading from the canal on the other end. We pass in the center of the field again. It is like two pirate ships passing in the Caribbean Sea. You only have about 60 seconds to unload your arsenal before you are out of range. For the next 30 minutes, each time we pass, a furious battle is fought in the hay fields of Wyoming.

Finally a truce is called and we meet at the ditch at the bottom of the field. We need to clean-up, we are covered in mud. After washing off we walk over to the plum trees and sit in the shade eating plums, laughing and arguing over the worst and best shots. It is time to finish this field and we head back to our tractors. Just before we get there we see a skunk run out of the hayfield and it is out in the open. Skunks are our most despised animal. They not only stink but they eat the pheasant and chicken eggs, so when we see one we are destined to kill it. Chasing a skunk is a delicate adventure. You can’t get too close yet you have to get close enough. The skunk runs down a hole at the edge of the field. We look around and can’t see any escape holes. We find a big log and drag it over the top of the hole and decide to come back later and set a steel trap at the opening.

It is time to finish this field and we get back on our tractors and the rest of the day seems quite boring. We are finally finished and are headed back to the house. I don’t feel well.. Plums make prunes and prunes are a natural laxative, but I didn’t know that then. Before we get back to the house I have to stop twice near a corn field and well, you know the rest. As we pull into the yard Buff asks if we finished and then sees the tractors. They are covered in mud and still have mud balls sticking to the sides. Buff just shakes his head and walks away.

After we finish the evening chores we decide to go set our trap for Mr. Skunk. We rummage through the shop and find an old steel trap and a short piece of chain. We plan on chaining the trap to the log and setting the trap at the entrance of the hole. The skunk will have to step in it to get out. We jump in Will’s pickup and head back up to the Robertson place. It is a warm summer evening and I have my shirt unbuttoned and am wearing it like a vest. We both step out of the pickup near the skunk hole. Will gets in the back to get the chain and trap and I approach the log over the hole. I bend over the log and move it off of the hole. The skunk has burrowed under the log and he and I are face to face inches apart. I try to jump back but it is too late. I feel the yellow slime of his spray hit my chest . I am holding my breath knowing that this is going to be bad. My lungs give up and at the first inhale I start throwing up. The smell is overwhelming and I run to the canal dry heaving and jump in. I throw my shirt off and rub mud from the banks all over my chest. It doesn’t seem to help. The smell is unbelievable.
Wilford seemed to find some humor in this event and can’t quit laughing. I can’t get the smell off. He decides to take me home but makes me ride in the back of the pickup. I get to the house and my mother won’t let me come inside. She gets me a change of clothes , a big bucket of hot water and soap. I go to the barn, wash-up and change clothes. She still won’t let me in the house. For the next three days I live in solitude. I am fed outdoors, sleep outdoors and have a multitude of remedies tried on me. One Aunt brings quarts of tomato juice, another brings bottles of vinegar, many people bring all kinds of soaps. Nothing works. It takes five days for the smell to finally dissipate. To this day when I smell a skunk , I think of that warm summer evening in Wyoming.