4.3 World War Two: Induction

WORLD WAR II

Induction

In early May, 1943, I received my orders YOU WILL REPORT TO FORT SILL, OKLAHOMA FOR INDUCTION AND, AFTER PROCESSING WILL PROCEED TO CAMP MAXIE, TEXAS FOR THIRTEEN WEEKS BASIC TRAIN ING AFTER WHICH YOU WILL RETURN TO TEXAS A&M IN THE ASTP PROGRAM.
            

Based on those orders, we got married on May 15, 1943 in Fort Worth. Because I was not 21, not even 20 at the time, I had to have my parents’ signed permission to obtain a marriage license. Pat needed no such permission, females were at 18 legally mature for marriage. We had to have blood tests to prove neither of us had syphilis (why, I don't know and our exposure had been, unfortunately, marginal at best).

It was an unusually austere wedding, even by World War II standards. None of our friends from High School or College were present, only our parents, and it took place on a neighboring preacher’s front porch (that turkey didn't even have the grace toinvite us into his living room). We spent our wedding night (Saturday) in the Westbrook Hotel in downtown Fort Worth, and I hitchhiked back to College Station on Sunday afternoon.

Two weeks later the semester ended and I moved to Ft. Worth to await my Induction. We had a furnished room down the street from Pat's parents. She was working at Consolidated as a draftsman and R C West gave me a temporary Job at Collier's Dryer (egg drying--they dehydrated eggs) where I, along with a dozen or so blacks, unloaded cases of eggs all day. They accepted me as another laborer trying to make a buck.

On June 5th, as directed, I reported to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma (hitchhiking, of course, from Ft. Worth). Much to my surprise, several of my High School, but few of my Aggie, friends were there. We were, indeed, PROCESSED. We were shorn of most of our hair and issued a full complement of Army uniforms and sundry equipment. It was no big deal for me after two years as a cadet at TEXAS AIM, but it probably was the first exposure to culture shock for McCharles (Smoky) Huff and Gene (Cotton) Hill--both of whom had gone to the University of Texas on football scholarships.

Every evening after dinner (chow) we went over to the Boxing Ring for fun and games. Lots of people made real asses of themselves there because of the WW II macho mentality. One night after a heavy army dinner, several beers, and even a pint of strawberry ice cream, several of us went to the THE FIGHTS. Much to my consternation, some fellow TEXAS AGGIE who had seen me fight at TEXAS A&M, got on the loudspeaker and said "We have
somebody from TEXAS A&M who will fight anybody in the house from 150 to 175 pounds. Immediately a rather cherub-like fellow of probably 180 pounds climbed into the ring. 'I'm from Texas Tech", he said, "and I can lick any TEXAS AGGIE".

While we were having the gloves put on (no mouthpieces, no foul cups, no hand wraps, no shoes) for a fight not of my choosing, I seeking to establish the odds, asked my opponent if he had ever boxed. “Yeah, in the backyard on Sunday afternoon; how about you?” "About the same" I replied, thinking I might get out it without getting hurt or even throwing up the strawberry ice cream. Sure enough, he was telling the truth! We met in the center of the ring; I faked with a right to the head and he took the fake. When he went up with his hands, I hit him with a left to the body and a right and a left to the head and it was all over. He went down like he had been shot with a 30.06 and didn't even roll over.

As I was pulling off my gloves, some guy from the crowd stood up and said "Don't leave, I'll fight you." I knew I didn't want anything to do with anyone who dared to challenge me after that imposing debut. I very calmly said "I'm through for tonight, maybe we can fight tomorrow night." The crowd wouldn't let me out of the ring and the challenger climbed in. I was mostly concerned with surviving: stick and move. He hit me once on the shoulder and it hurt for a week. We fought a three round draw, with me mostly running. After it was over, we went to the PX for a beer where he said, "You're pretty tough, I lost in the finals of the Golden Gloves National Championships last month on a lucky punch. Maybe we can fight again tomorrow. There was no way I was going to get in the ring with that killer again. “Sorry, but I'm shipping out tomorrow"; I almost starved to avoid him.

A few days later most of us were taken, via trucks and carrying all our possessions in two barracks bags, to the train station for our trio to Camp Maxie. The windows and shades on the troop train were closed (to prevent Hitler, Mussolini, and
ToJo from learning where 50 teenage Americans were going for Basic Training). Not only did they cross up the BAD GUYS, they fooled us, too--when the train finally stopped we were in Fort Riley, Kansas. That was the first, but not the last, time the Army lied to me. Even at the time, 1 suspected the Officers liked playing war--the sealed orders, closed shades and secrecy of our rail transport did not amuse me--but 1 was madder than hell to be in Ft. Riley, Kansas when my orders clearly said I was going to Camp Maxie, Texas.

However, I must admit that the Fort Riley Basic Training was a "Rich Emotional Experience". We were one SQUADRON (Battalion, in Infantry terms) of Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) basic trainees in one of the most traditional,
rigid, Army installations in the United States. They were CAVALRY, By God, and if you hadn't shoveled horse dung (they called it what it was) you had not really experienced basic training.

We were really different; of the 1,000 of us, 998 were college students and the other two were high school valedictorians of the 1943 graduation. We took great delight in reading the Field Manuals the night before we had something scheduled and knowing more about it than our Noncoms.. They, our Noncommissioned Officers, were probably above average, but they seemed a dull lot to us. We must have been insufferable; I'm sure they would have liked to kill us at times, but we set all kinds of records at Ft. Riley for everything imaginable. It was probably the brightest group of people with whom I have ever been associated.

Our Commanding Officer was 1st. Lt. (later, Cpt.) Jc.seph Diak, about 5-5 and a former distance runner at the University of Michigan. Like many short men, he had a Napoleonic complex; most of us hated him, but he was probably the best possible choice to command the bunch of "Smart Asses" he was given. Our 1st. Sgt., I think his name was Swearingen, was outstanding-tall, thin, immaculate in khaki uniforms with razor creases-and always in control. He, of course, never went on 10 mile hikes, bivouacs, or sprawled on his belly at the rifle range, but he was a fantastic role model--didn't sweat, didn't smell, and his hair was never mussed. We had two 2nd Lts., brothers from TEXAS A&M named Melton, a Sgt. (4th Platoon) who had been a football player at Colgate but was almost unable to speak intelligible English (I occasionally wondered if he could read). "These barracks looks like whorehouses" he would say and then look perplexed when all those smart kids cheered. "You're all gonna stay here on Saturday and rid scrub these filthy fucking floors--NO PASSES". "Way to go" we would all shout, and he would belatedly realize he would have to sacrifice his weekend to check up on us. Besides, most of us didn't have anywhere to go on the weekend.

The night before we were to go to the rifle range to fire the Ml (the lovely Garand, semiautomatic gas operated, shoulder-fired infantryman's best friend) for record, someone asked me in the latrine if I expected to shoot "Expert" the next day. Stupidly, Isaid, "if Joe Diak's balls were on the target, I'd shoot a POSSIBLE" (that's Rifle Range language for all bullseyes). Then I heard the fateful words from someone sitting on the stoop shining his shoes, "Someone just took the Lord’s name in vain.” Sure enough, Lt. Diak strode into the barracks, "whoever said that can admit it and be in a lot of trouble or not admit it and the whole platoon is in a lot more trouble". (How he got into hearing range without our carefully contrived Officer-Noncom security system working, I don't know. ) Several of my fellow basic trainees surreptitiously signaled me to keep quiet--we knew that it was us against them and if anyone fucked up, we closed ranks.   I must admit I considered keeping my mouth shut (Pity I hadn’t done it a few minutes earlier) but then I remembered we we're in fantastic physical condition and HORNY. There was no way I was going to get the Third Platoon confined to barracks for the next four weeks (they would probably have killed me). "I said it, Sir", wishing I could , somehow disappear. "You are Private Sparks, aren't you? Yes Sir. You will report to my office at 0800 in the morning for a SUMMARY COURTS MARTIAL". I had been in trouble before, lots of times, but Irealized this might be BIG TROUBLE. I did not sleep well that night and I reported to the Commanding Officer’s office at five minutes before 0800. 

When the 1st. Sgt. gave me permission to enter, I strode to a spot infront of the C.O's desk, clicked my heels, saluted and said smartly, "Private Sparks reporting as ordered, “SIR”. Lt. Diak looked up and said, in a rather terse voice, "Sparks, we are in a war; I am trying the best way I know how to train a bunch of students to fight and survive against enemies who do not fight fair.  I was prepared to tell him all about my brother who was a Japanese POW, but I felt like such an asshole, I just said “O understand, Sir, and I won’t give you anymore trouble. That was not one of my finest hours. I also didn't shoot up to my capability, undoubtedly as a result of little sleep and emotional tension.

A few days later we were once again on the Firing Range, this time with the 30 caliber Light Machine Gun.          Whoever named it "Light" never carried one of them as far as I did, but it was a lovely weapon. The first semester of my Junior Year in ROTC at Texas A&M had been devoted entirely to te 30 caliber machine gun.

As usual, we had sat on the first floor of the 3^rd platoon’s barracks the night before with a copy of the Field Manual on the 30 Caliber Light machine Gun.  “Does anyone know anything about this sucker,” asked the leader of the discussion.  “I know almost everything there is to know, I modestly asserted. I had memorized the class at A&M on the Machine un.  I spent an hour or so on the Monemclature (names of part – like barrel, bolt, sear, and sight) and Phases of Function (how it worked as an automatic).

On arriving at the Machine Gun Range the next morning, we were, by platoon, seated ont eh ground in te sun (there wasn’t any shade on the plains of Kansas) to hear the “WORD” from Weapons Cadre. Some PFC or CPL asked sarcastically in a Yankee accent, “Anybody here know anything about a machine un?”  I had already learned not to respond to that kind of baiting, so I kept my mouth firmly closed. Unfortunately, one of my colleagues rose to the bair and said “Sparks knows something about it.” “Where’s Sparks,” he asked.
I’’m pretty sure he went on sick call I volunteered.” He said, “You’re Sparks, and what do you know?” Reluctantly rising to my feet, I asked, “What do you want me to talk about?  He nastily said “How about phases of function.”

I thought, what the hell – I’m trapped, so why not go down in a blaze of glory – so I started at the beginning and went through the entire 10 pages or so, quoting the field manual word for word. The further I went the more uncomfortable he got, qnd the harder it became for the 3^rd Platoon to suppress their mirth.  When I finished he said, sort of weakly, “That wasn’t too bad, Sparks.”  If he’d had a LOADED machine gun in his possession, he might have killed me.

I ws totally unaware that the Lt. in charge of that day’s instruction was anywhere around.  But during out 10 minute cigarette break at the end of the session, a 1^st Lt. came up to me and said something like, “That was pretty impressive; if you would like to be in Weapons Cadre, I like to have you on my team.” I felt really good about that, and I guess I “filed it” as an option in case ASTP didn’t work out.

We did well with the 30 cal. Light Machine un, but I sort of earned the title of “Mr. machine Gun.”  I would have rather carried an I1, or even a BAT (Browning Automatic Rifle) since bother were lighter, but I always had the “light” machine gun on 20 mile hikes.  I wasn’t too crazy about carrying it, but I loved to fire it.