Life Aboard the USS Weigel

Dedicated to Battalion Surgeon Doc Lovy, who utilized our boat time well.

My world quickly turned from olive drab to navy gray. It also shrunk to a maximum of 622 feet, with parts off limits! This was not a cruise ship. The Weigel was designed to take a lot of troops from point A to point B.

We did eat three squares a day. Food was prepared in the galley…not the mess hall. At first the food appealed because it was different. However, one unique feature stood out in my mind. Somebody had over purchased the rice. We ate rice, in creative variation, two or three times daily. We had: plain rice, rice with gravy, rice soup, rice and beans, rice pudding etc. I never went hungry the whole time because I could deal with the rice.

It proved difficult to bust out in the morning run. I tried to run up and down the ladders at every opportunity. We managed daily mandatory push ups and sit ups. There was a lot of down time and no place to go. We soon fought boredom and the complete lack of personal space. We were packed like sardines. One deck was dedicated to the 3/503rd battalion. Mike Krawczyk remembers this unit as part of the 173rd Airborne Brigade (definitely off limits)! Although the ship’s condition was clean, troop areas were stuffy, to say the least. I went topside as often as I could and paced all the authorized areas.

Showers in hard water were a trip. The soap would get mushy. You left clean, but with some kind of soapy residue. I suppose we were navy clean. My brother was a Navy man, who gave good advise. If you drop the soap…you leave it there.

The sea proved a bit rough at times. You could get the full effect at the bow. Rise and fall gave a cheap thrill on the forward main deck. You had to keep an eye out, at mid-ship, because somebody would occasionally lean over the side to hurl that rice; the wind could carry hurl the entire length of the ship. Really!

We eventually ran through a typhoon that challenged my new found sea legs. We  were  ordered below decks (not a good sign). Every paratrooper knows the nauseous strain of g forces. The stuffy troop area and questions of this old craft’s seaworthiness, heightened the tension at hand. This situation was out of control.  The only choice I had, in this losing battle, was to lay down on my bunk.  In God’s mercy, I passed out. The seas were balmy the next morning! Time for more rice.

We took one amazing class on quick shooting. The instructor advised us to use our middle finger on the trigger, and our normal trigger finger as a pointer along side the barrel. We practiced ‘point and shoot’ with pellet guns. The idea is to get off the first good shot. In close quarters…that is realistic. Pointing is extremely accurate. I adopted that method easily with the M-16. This was ideal in the bush.

The highlight of our ‘cruise’ was the afternoon classes with Dr. Andrew Lovy. Most of us had some medical experience. However, I have not spoken with a medic who did not thoroughly appreciate that priceless time with the master. As I said in Home Away from Home, Dr. Lovy provided the proficiency. Our beloved physician ensured that every one of us left that ship with both competence and confidence.

I later ran into a medic en route to my R & R, who had lost six or seven troops in a row. He held his head down to say that no one he touched had made it. Although, I said all the right words to console him, I breathed a prayer of gratitude for that series of classes on the Weigel. Medics are isolated when the crap hits the fan…not much time to be asking questions. Training is everything.

Dr. Lovy concluded his training with this final thought. From this day forward, we would be Dr. Lovy’s eyes and hands in the field.  I think our medical unit record upholds his affirmation. We were a direct extension of his ability.

On a final note, I think most medics had one thing to say to Doc Lovy, “Sir, if I come back on the meat wagon, please don’t let anyone but you touch me.” I for one…voiced those very words. He gave his promise.

Currahee Doc!

 

 

 

3/506th…Boat People

The sands of time fell silently to the bottom of the hourglass. Mobility was the norm in the 101st Airborne, but this trip would bring us all a few firsts. We sat on the grass in our new tropical fatigues, jungle boots, rucksacks and duffle bags. We were instructed NOT to wear our Screaming Eagle patch nor unit insignia. The trucks came to load us for the airport. Military airports via the U.S. Air Force could take us literally anywhere in the world. This flight would take us to California…Vietnam bound. Chatter was sparse as the general mood became reflective. Reality was settling in.

We landed at Oakland International Airport. The battalion moved in columns across the expanse of this international airport. I looked into the eyes of the people taken by surprise, by the sight and magnitude, of this large unit movement. These would be the last American civilians I would see in a very long time. Some looked directly back; some shifted their eyes toward some unknown destination. With the steel pots on our heads, our destination was obvious…nothing need be said. This was my first and last trip to California. Everything looked so ordinarily metropolitan American. The general surprise brought no resistance…more a resignation, of a war that flamed ever brighter in the public’s eye.

At swift cadence, we were hastily loaded on buses that would take us to the dock and our first glimpse of our new home. There she was…the USS General Weigel, a WWII troopship awaiting another generation of warriors. Ladened with ruck and duffle bags, we worked our way up the gangplank to the main deck. The ships internal ladders were more challenging, as we descended deep within its hold. The web bunks were four high, and I found one at the bottom. Possession is nine tenths of the law; it would be my spot for the next month. Once secured, I made my way toward the main deck for an unusual attraction.

We didn’t linger long at dock. Our main equipment had been shipped and boarded in advance. This was a well designed trip. The ship’s movement was obvious to us all. I wanted some last glimpses of our beloved USA . Momentarily, I would wear the eyes of a tourist, seeing this vista for the first and last time.

The Golden Gate Bridge shined in all its glory. It looked every bit as great as the picture books. As we passed underneath, I heard some commotion from the bridge. The ship’s deck narrowed the vertical distance to this bridge, and we could hear quite distinctly. We cleared the bridge. We all looked toward the source.

Directly above was a rag tagged California demonstration committee. They were genuine California hippies in all their glory. I couldn’t read the makeshift banners. But, I could clearly hear them shout obscenities at us baby killers. Everybody had to have their say in less than a minute…we where picking up speed for the open sea.

For a brief span of time…it was us and them. I just knew the return salvo was brewing. Paratroopers excel in profanity.  Every word not found in the dictionary was duly exchanged. Nobody was jumping off that bridge, and we couldn’t reach up to pull one off by their scraggly hair. It boiled down to profane fun. There were more troops packed on deck, than hippies hanging off the bridge. In my biased opinion, we won the day’s skirmish. By the way, I had never seen one of those California critters before. It was quite a send off.

The Weigel plowed into open waters, muting the verbal skirmish. All that was left was a few inappropriate gestures…until the growing distance made them ineffective.  Being a land lover, open sky and sea quickly grew boring. It was time to explore the 622 feet of the ship.

The original members of the 3/506th became known, amongst our own, as the Boat People.  Many would join us over time, but they would be deemed replacements. The originals were and are still held in special regard.  In my opinion, it was far better to go with a unit, than wind up as a replacement within an established unit. Replacements have a learning curve and are looked upon with suspicion. The draw back, to the Boat People, was that the casualties were far more personal. The more you knew a soldier, the more it hurt. In a distant land, losses would soon come.

This post is dedicated to the Boat People. Currahee ( We Stand Alone) my Brothers in Arms!

Home Away from Home

 

A soldier needs grounding, especially before their combat experience. Instinctively, the army knew a leave home would accomplish much in building/reminding of inner core strength. However, two other elements served to fulfill me as a man. Faith and proficiency completed the inner strength needed for sustained adversity. The battle is always won or lost between the ears. Family, faith and proficiency were the elements below the waterline…that would sustain the external Currahee soldier. Dr. Andrew Lovy provided the proficiency. The Christian Serviceman’s Center provided the means of faith.

It takes a unique love to reach out to soldiers away from home. The constraints of home are largely abandoned within a few weeks of military life.  The army tends to break you down to build up the new soldier within. Old constraints are often replaced for peer acceptance in a coarser environment. The Airborne persona added merit in taking most everything to its extreme…as in drinking, fighting, cussing…anything! The major exception were the married men; they lived a dual life.

The Christian Serviceman’s Center rapidly became that home away from home. With the exception of field duty, I was bound toward the center in my civilians every Friday night. I opted to sleep on one of the many old couches, in lieu of the comfort of my own bunk. We had a simple game room. Often local churches would supply heavy snacks. Sunday mornings we filtered off toward  one of those local churches. However, it was in the Center that we could largely be ourselves. Although I was eighteen, I would never again fit in with a typical 18 year old crowd. I had already gone way past their life experiences.

Director Harold Witmer would often drive us to a Saturday night sing throughout the Tennessee hills. The car would be filled to the brim. We often comprised a simple majority at those sings…typically front and center. Harold always drove and Harold always prayed for us by name. I prayed real hard too! I couldn’t understand how Harold could pray and drive at the same time. However, I knew that Harold was no ordinary Christian. It was only toward the last that I discovered Harold could pray with his eyes wide open! Up to that time, I had resigned my fate to my personal peace with God…readied to meet my Maker!

Resident Director Glen Davis, by virtue of his personal calling, spent much of his weekend time helping us to sort out the balance between soldier and Christ follower. He  was personal and his message was of life with a personal God. Sometimes he would give a fatherly hug…always when most needed. Glen had the balance of being both manly and tender. By day, he excelled as a public school teacher. The weekends were overtime. Glen became my spiritual father…my personal example of how faith is lived in daily life. I surrendered much coarseness through time spent with Glen.

My home away from home became the final pit stop for good byes. Our only other resident paratrooper was a rigger; there we were all just Christian soldiers. We went through the motions, but everyone stopped to acknowledge my orders. They ribbed me because I was by far the smallest in this group…taking on the heaviest assignment. Most were going home straight from Ft. Campbell. They reflected that God has a sense of humor. But they also affirmed a faith in me, that I could get it done. They formed a ring around me, to pray and send me off to battle with those Currahees.

A man is not prepared to live until he is prepared to die. Although I lacked the promise of 72 virgins, it was this newly found faith that would cause me to disregard my own safety. I had no quest to be a martyr. I did see the medic as the highest of battle callings. It was a position where manly and tender intersect. By faith…I stepped up.

Providence is that place where God is in the details of our lives. Being said, I think it was Divine purpose that sent me with the 3/506th. I trust my Currahee brothers feel the same.

Currahee…We Stand Alone, together. Yet, God Himself watched over our Band of Brothers.

 

 

 

 

Final Leave

This picture was taken during my final leave. The summer khaki uniforms were de rigueur in warm seasons. We could not wear fatigues off post, in our day. The light blue represented active assignment to an infantry unit. The Glider Patch on the cap, wings and boots (not pictured) designated my Airborne status. I was 18 years old; I would celebrate my 19th birthday somewhere in Vietnam.

Some of us were given priority military hops, to speed up our travel time home. I was provided a ‘hop’ to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey. This would allow me shorter distance by bus to Maine. We flew in a C-141 Starlifter jet from Ft. Campbell. Most of us sat nervously on the floor.  I couldn’t figure out the tension. Finally before arrival,  I popped the question, “Has anyone ever landed in one of these?” None of us had ever landed in a C-141 before. I had jumped them at least a half dozen times. This was our very first landing! Thanks to the U. S. Air Force, we landed and were immediately shuttled to the bus stop. I was at the New York Port Authority in no time. I remained inside ( see Night Perils December 15th) until my Maine bound bus arrived!

There is no place like home. These 30 days were my longest and final leave. Spending time with Dad was the first and last every day event. However, on this leave we skipped all things military. We still shared our coffee, but we talked about family memories, of peaceful happy times. My Dad was both a WWII and Korean War veteran; he knew the drill intimately. It was only recently that we had begun to reverse our roles. We never, in all my memories ever said good bye…we always said, “See you soon!” On my Dad’s last deployment, he suffered two major heart attacks. I could have lost him at the age of 15, half way round the world, in some God forsaken place. Any and every day spent with my Dad was priceless beyond all comprehension. I lived in the constant fear that we could be forever separated by one missing heartbeat.

I lost track of time…for a season. Everyone that mattered received their greeting. Most didn’t have a clue what I was about to experience, nor had they anyone in harm’s way. I wanted to be just like my Dad, which took me down a different path than my peers.

Time didn’t lose tract of me. My Dad had carefully noted my leave papers. The return bus ticket was arranged well in advance. My Dad knew the consequences of tardiness, for a combat bound unit. Once an non-commissioned officer, always a non-commissioned officer. The evening before finally arrived.

Dad cleared his throat, as an indication to listen up. He finally found the words, “Son, this is the hardest damn thing I have ever done in my life. I have seen hell and back more than once. You are going to see some things  I wish you would never have to see.  If I could only go for you, in your place, is the only thing that would give me peace. But, I can’t this time. I know you will do your best. I pray that  you come home to me, at the end of your tour…all I can do now is pray.”

The bus arrived at the designated moment. I turned around to look one for last time. I smiled to say, “See you soon, Dad!”

I would return one day. We would have a wordless, but deeper understanding. It would prove a costly bond. I would tell very little of my own experiences…the things you read today. I would just take another sip of coffee, and ask an open question of my Dad, about another war, fought valiantly by him…somewhere else.

Dedicated to the man who never heard this…Dad.

“See you soon!”

 

Last Will and Testament

When the training is over, the transition is inevitable and quick. A few things begin to directly hit your consciousness. Most normal healthy 18 years olds do not candidly discuss their own mortality. We quietly waited in line for our turn at the desk. It was now my turn to answer a few simple questions and sign on the dotted line.

Being single and somewhat carefree, my situation was pretty much straightforward. We had a ten thousand dollar policy to distribute, in the event of our demise. The figure would bury us, leaving some extra for a favored kin. This was the last chance to consider my potential beneficiaries before hostile action. I signed and moved on. We were informed that medics have a 50% chance of returning without a wound or fatality, with only six months of frontline exposure.

We were issued new uniforms…jungle fatigues and boots. We were provided with rucksacks and nylon liners designed for tropical sleep, underneath the sheltering ponchos. We packed our winter gear in separate duffle bags…that none of us would ever see again. Personal items could be given away or taken home on the last leave.

We assembled by unit for group pictures. For some, this was the last picture taken alive. To this day, we look back on those pictures and mark the wounded (WIA) and many killed (KIA).

Shot records were given a final review. I was pretty much up to date. For some men, whose immunization records were lost, this would be a day of painful reckoning. Everything necessary for deployment was given highest priority.

Our medics were called aside one afternoon. We all demonstrated, on each other, the ability to thread a needle into a vein. We proved readiness for the inevitable gunshot wounds.

The air was thick in anticipation. When the army says you are ready…you are ready. There was only one more remaining event, entitled to every deploying soldier…the last leave to go home. This leave would be filled with uncertainty, but it would allow us one more glimpse of the things we would be fighting to preserve…and for that  which we strived to return.

We had a Rendezvous with Destiny, days not weeks,  after final leave.

Dedicated to the families, of those who said their last good byes, on that last leave before deployment. Families also serve…all too painfully.

Shooting Blanks in the Smokies

Be careful when the army spares no expense! Our last stateside trip was to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. We convoyed for this trek. It was one of those wide open spaces road trips, that wouldn’t quit. The army had plans that we would conduct a combat jump in Vietnam, in a mountainous area. Therefore, to the hills we go!

They asked who had civilian drivers licenses. We would spend significant time on civilian roads. To date, I personally saw no use in gaining one. A car purchase was out of our pay grade; the maintenance on a fix-or-repair-daily kept the average car owning soldier broke. My lot was to take in the sights from the back end  of a two and a half ton truck. So, I took it all in, with eyes wide open.

This was my first time at serious mountain trekking. Our legs were in great shape. I did note that different muscles would tighten on long descents. Everything was either up or down. Tactically, we ascended by ridges, versus the stream beds and dry ravines. The easier paths made us more susceptible to an ambush.  I also noted that the mountains seem to grow more ridges…there was always one more ridge when you had hopes to see the top. Keep climbing soldier!

With perfect weather, the days of maneuvers flew by. We were provided some blank ammo to fire up the hills. It was all good training. Our platoon finally settled on a ridge, overlooking Battalion Commander Geraci’s command tent. (We may have rotated into perimeter duty.)  In the cool of early evening, I observed two ladies walking up the path toward the command post. This was a very large national park. Where did they come from?  One carried a long rifle, that would stretch the length of her; the other lady carried the  ammo. These were real mountain ladies. I doubt they carried blanks!

On their approach they demanded, “Who’s making that ruckus in our hills?” In some respects this was quite humorous. However, I could envision one of our tactical platoons in  a firefight with that long gun.  The ladies would win hands down! Somehow, I thought they were just bored and they wanted to make a statement. I don’t think the opportunity of chatting with several hundred guys came that often in these parts.

The Mountain Ladies had a certain rugged appeal. Their wide brimmed hats framed their weathered looks. Our alternatives were mountain lions and bears. However, their ages were more in common with our top brass. Our commanders resolved their concerns with great diplomacy…and a touch of airborne chivalry. Our Ladies of the Mountains sauntered off triumphantly…gun toting…fading round the bend.

The unit training experiences faded pretty much the same way…round the last bend. Training saves lives; it must be embraced wholeheartedly, to save lives.  Two things stand out, after years of reflection. We grew closer and more cohesive with each passing day. We had a Rendezvous with Destiny…live or die…we would share the same experiences as one.

The closer we grew, the more distant we were from anyone else. We never fit neatly into the natural space of others. Everyone stared at us…trying to define us. We reminded them of the war televised daily, yet we were a flesh and blood evidence of that distant reality. They would lead ordinary lives. There was nothing ordinary about us.

Human beings don uniforms daily. They remain fully human, yet the uniform serves to separate. We laughed and cried. We trained hard to fight hard. We slept, we celebrated. We whispered private fears. We talked tough. If you took on one of us…you took on the whole unit. I have never seen that degree of loyalty since.

Let’s pack up Currahees. Out time has finally come.

 

 

 

Totally Challenged

Currahee training was unique, as one of those units forming specifically for actual combat. We held unit orders. Our tactical assignments were already being configured into the mix of the upcoming ‘in country’ division strategy. Every man in every position was constantly being evaluated. At my level…the goal was to focus on being my best.

I wandered into the cross-hairs of a field captain by complete surprise. We returned to Ft. Campbell, to a continuous series of field exercises. All was pretty typical.

A soldier came up to me to take a look at his buddy. His squad member had been stung in the face, by a flying insect. You rarely have the luxury of complete information. God only knows exactly what bit him. However, there are no fatal creature threats at Ft. Campbell, KY.

What I observed was the severest reaction, of any bite I had seen to date. The trooper’s face was grotesquely swollen; I thought his upper lip might split. They were soaking his face in water, partly to relieve the pain.

I immediately gave him Benadryl and told him to stay in place. I hunted for the platoon leader to request a routine evacuation, on their first jeep out. I did not have a field ambulance. Based on the fact of severity, complications to the facial area, and the abruptness of allergic reaction, I wanted this man evacuated to a medical team setting. Although his breathing seemed regular, the remote chance of anaphylactic shock made me want to err on the side of caution. Obviously, bed rest would help him recover. The combination of his medical condition and the Benadryl rendered him useless in the field. A sick soldier can easily tie up another two or three soldiers.

When the platoon leader informed the company commander, all hell broke loose! I was summoned to an officer’s meeting to address my poor judgment. I heard, “Soldier, don’t you know that one additional rifleman can make the difference in a firefight?” This was the beginning of the diatribe. One does not discuss nor directly question a line officer. For the most part they are right. Line officers ruled our universe. Our officer’s judgment would prove to bring most  of us home. 

I had experienced more than one good butt chewing, but never for a medical decision. I sucked it up until the summation. Then I quietly repeated my original request, “Requesting a routine evacuation for this soldier, Sir.”[What I wasn’t going to do was discuss anything about my medical decision. It would put me on the defense. Bottom line, neither was he medical.] Life moves on, and I dismissed the experience as ‘the life of a Private First Class.’ Everything rolls downhill.

Eventually, I called for two routine evacuations in Vietnam. Basically, if a man doesn’t have a bullet hole…it’s routine. The first may have saved a man’s arm (according to Doc Lovy, Battalion Surgeon). This evacuation will be treated as another story in due time. However, I was bracing myself for another real butt chewing…fully remembering the above conversation.

The second was due to a severe case of hemorrhoids, protruding at length from the anus. The latter example provides a case for a temporary evacuation, to preserve the fighting strength for the duration.

The field is a dirty place at best. The jungle proved to be a medical horror show. Our medics proved to be very much Currahee!

As a post thought, I am truly grateful to most of those hard headed line officers. Most were solid leaders and effectively balanced the tension between successful mission and their men.

Salute…to the Anonymous Captain, for the best butt chewing I ever received in this man’s army.

Currahee, Sir!

The Swamping Currahees

Ugly Mae West

 

RU Airborne’s pic of a typical Mae West.

There is nothing like the practiced eyes of a paramedic (jump qualified medic) to cover the drop zone. We gazed intently for the first signs of trouble. Observation started while the men exited the aircraft. Routinely, the parachutes billowed into their rounded fullness in seconds… filling the sky with rows paratroopers. Anything other than the norm drew quick attention. I could spot and run toward a troubled situation, and be there about the time they touched the ground. Our medical assessment would be well on its way, as the ambulance traversed the cleared field.

The role is reversed on this day; someone else is covering the ground. This would be the closest call in my own jump experience. After the usual exit count (one thousand one…one thousand four) there was still a troubling breeze blowing in my ears. I looked up, with no time for denial. There wasn’t much silk slowing me down.

All Mae Wests are ugly. Especially since I was looking directly over my head. “It’s me oh Lord”…is all I could say to myself. One or two of my suspension lines sliced the normal diameter of my chute, by sliding over the top of the canopy. The parachute takes on a bra like shape…therefore the name Mae West. Military chutes are designed for rapid descent; the slightest malfunction destroys the chute’s capacity for a safe drop.

In my opinion, bad results stem from poor exits. So I will provide some poor excuses for almost killing myself. If my memory serves me right, we were on a Currahee jump at Fort Steward. This was a field exercise in the Georgia swamps.

We jumped with rations and water. Field gear is easy enough, until you add a main parachute on your back, a reserve on the front…with everything else you own below it. With the medical bag, my load dropped well past the knees! Things return to normal once you hit the ground. Overall, this was just good army training.

We lined up in front of the aircraft. I couldn’t pull my usual delay to gain a seat near the door. Our craft was huge, a C-124 transport. It was a double decker, that would make two passes at the drop zone. They would drop a pile of us. Organizing outside the plane lessened the confusion. I was glad to be on the lower level, but I would be half way down the right hand stick (line of jumpers).

Airtime abbreviates any distance. Before you know it, the exit started. I shuffled to the door. The doors were extra wide. I usually braced myself with the door edges for balance. Giving it my best shot, I exited almost head first. The bad exit allowed the chute to open improperly.

You could measure the remaining sequence in seconds. I should have technically released the main, and then pull the reserve. Thinking I had run short of descent time, I pulled the pin. The reserve deployed well into the may west. I yanked hard on the reserve risers, to no avail. It was then…my life flashed before my eyes on fast forward. My brain was thinking this is terminal.

Military discipline saves lives. With the second attempt, I pulled on those risers like my life depended on it. It did! It was so sweet when the reserve burst from my grip with a pop! Now that the pressure was off the main, the suspension lines slid to allow the main chute to deploy. I had the near full effect of two chutes, for the last hundred or so feet. It was the softest landing I had ever experienced!

I’m laying in a heap, thanking Jesus, when a straight leg Lt. Colonel runs up to me. He bends over to say, “How you doing soldier?” I say, “Airborne, Sir!” It was then I saw the look of deep disappointment, that he did not see a bloodied heap. Thoughts of Leavenworth (United States Military Barracks) hit my mind, but he was fast gone before I could consummate my response. Why are people fascinated with blood and guts?!?

The ground support medics arrived next. They said I was in the second plane and the first man to hit the ground. They didn’t know I was half way down the stick of that second plane. I had passed quite a few paratroopers to the ground.

I made two mistakes in about twenty jumps. Ironically, my mistakes were bookends, my very first and very last jumps. It was time to dust off and walk away. I gratefully rejoined the troops for some Georgia swamp training!

Orders…for Currahee!

Some are content to read history, there are those who live…to make history. The Airborne Way is an amazingly fast paced life, that frequently makes the history books.  In one early morning formation, orders for the new 3/506th PIR were announced. The only thing remembered was that my name was on that list! Now at 18 years of age, it was really just a matter of time. Someone in divisional headquarters carefully calculated each paratrooper’s (ETS) estimated time of separation; they always allowed for a 365 day tour in Vietnam. I suspect that it saved the army money, if you toured toward the last year of an enlistment. They wouldn’t incur the costs of re-issuing the bulk of our equipment and sending us for a short stint to a new outfit. Most of us chose not to reenlist. Career paratroopers served about every other year in Vietnam.

What we didn’t know was that the remaining base units were fast behind us. Ft. Campbell would become a ghost town. The 1968 Tet Offensive would bring even more paratroopers from Ft. Bragg.

Good lucks were brief with the Geronimos. Other than one short visit, to catch up with my friend DZ (Geronimo Wine), there was no looking back. My friend, Lt. John Harrison, records that we had six months of Currahee training before deployment. If his calculations are correct, I spent half of my army career (of two years, nine months, and one day) with the 3/506th.

Transfers meant going to the post exchange for new unit crests. Parachutes and thunderbolts looked pretty cool. I still remember my reluctance, in purchasing the unit backgrounds for my wings. Yes, the PX had fully stocked for the occasion. The clerk assured me, in her broken English, “Yes, this 506th!” Money was always tight, at my rank!

Our quarters looked less than half full. I had my choice of locker and bunk in the medical section. We assembled in the very first morning formation. A sergeant determined that I was the senior  ranking enlisted medical man, as Private First Class. I had the unique privilege of saying, “Medical Platoon, all present and accounted for, Sir!” I didn’t have a clue if that was indeed correct. However, I enjoyed my one brief moment of fame.

It was at this first formation, that we were informed that we served in a highly decorated unit. We were reminded of this several times. Past history doesn’t mean much to the average young man. We were more interested in adding our page to the unit’s history.

We can thank HBO, for immortalizing the 506th PIR, as The Band of Brothers. This mini series placed us well into the 21st Century mindset. I remember when it first played on HBO. I said, “Hey, that’s MY unit!”

Originally, our own band became known as the Boat People, to distinguish us from replacements. The  first Currahees traveled to Vietnam by troopship. All said, I was Vietnam bound. The War was becoming very personal to us.

If the six months training is accurate, 30 days were spent on special leave, so the troops could spend time with their families. Many would never see their family again. None of us returned the same.

Currahee, my Band of Brothers