Don's Life in Army

          I enjoyed Willie Quinones” My Turn (Jan. 10) about his experience joining the navy. I felt an immediate connection to Willie because we obviously come from the same generation, and he worked at the school where I teach (Harbor College) even though our paths have never crossed. He seems to be a Mexican Catholic, I a German Catholic, with lot of family ties.

            But, gee, Willie, there the similarity ends. “Boot camp was fun.” “Great navy chow,” he wrote.  You have to be kidding me, Willie. I was not in the navy, but I joined the army in 1962 from an actual small town (10,000), not a metropolis of 100,000.  I hated every minute of the military. At the time, I thought it was the worst decision I ever made even though I had thought about it and considered the Peace Corps and Air Force officer training. I eliminated the first because it did not exempt me from the draft, and I failed the eye test for the second. 

            Unlike Willie, I hated everything about the military. First and foremost was constantly being yelled it. I am very sensitive (Yeah, right). Second, I hated, loathed and despised the army chow (an appropriate name if I ever heard one). Going in as a strapping 6-4, 167-pounder, I quickly lost more weight. Basic training (boot camp) was hell. I was sent to Fort Leonard Wood, Mo., from November through January. It was below zero in that God-forsaken place. Our cadre was mostly Missouri hillbillies whom we could barely understand.

            “Fur on the left, fur on the right,” we were ordered at the rifle range. We looked at each other “Fur? What the heck is fur?” Oh, fire, we finally figured out.

            We had to get up at dawn, exercise and do close-order drill until we dropped in below-zero weather. We almost died  in the gas chamber (we thought) and crawled under live fire (we thought) in the cold and mud. What fun, Willie! We watched as cadre constantly abused and physically assaulted a boy of about 17 who seemed to the rest of us to be mentally incapacitated. But not to the NCOs, who obviously were mentally incapacitated. Our brave company commander said that we were spending seven nights on bivouac – even though other companies gave up after a day or so – in the freezing weather (He slept in a motor home).

A few times I had KP from 2:30 a.m. to about 1 a.m. the following morning and was assigned the grease trap. The guy in charge of us was a PFC in the reserve who thought he was a cross between General Patton and Atilla the Hun.

            I wanted to attend Army Language School in Monterey or be assigned to the military newspaper, Stars and Stripes. (Army Communications was suggested, but I discovered that was stringing wire in the boondocks). Since I almost got a perfect score on the language aptitude test, and I had experience as a journalist and a degree, naturally, the Army, in its infinite wisdom, sent me to administrative school at Fort Leonard Wood. There I was taught to type by a 19-year-old private who was lucky if he could do 19 words a minute, while I did 80. My luckiest moment of all came when names ending in A-K were assigned to Germany (my dream assignment) and L-Z to Korea. Did I love the Army or what? 

However, Willie, I am very proud I gave three years of my life to my country. My experience made me realize how much I love America and enjoy my freedom.

            Don Lechman is a retired reporter, critic and editor for the Daily Breeze.