WAR GAMES

ProetryPlace Blog 30     Soldiering and Such

Part 4: War Games

    For the remainder of the Midwestern winter of 1952 and through the early spring of 1953, while the “military action” in Korea went from bad to worse, I acquired the skills of the modern foot soldier at the Camp Atterbury, Indiana infantry training base.

    For 16 weeks of basic training that the army intended to transform ‘cruits into able fighting men, I learned to shoot and care for M-1 rifles and semiautomatic carbines, the BAR, light and heavy machine guns, recoilless rifle anti-tank guns, bazookas, 45 caliber automatic pistols and the 60 mm mortars that some infantry squads carried.

    I became solely responsible for my new best friend, the M-1 rifle that I carried and meticulously cleaned daily. Even a spot of lint on the lightly oiled mechanisms would earn a day of KP, and the weapon was lovingly disassembled, cleaned and reassembled daily, sometimes in the dark, ready to be slung or carried shoulder arms for the next day’s drill or march.

    I earned a sharp-shooter medal.  I drilled daily in ranks and marched with a 30-pound backpack to bivouac camping in a pup tent in snow. I dug foxholes in frozen earth. I learned to crawl on my belly through mud under barbed wire with live machine gun tracer rounds zinging overhead.

trench buddies, RAA on left

    I did endless push-ups and increased my endurance by running miles at a time. I lost 10 pounds from an already slender frame and developed muscles where none had existed before. And I learned to say “Yes, Sir,” and to follow orders no matter how reluctantly or what questions sprang to mind.

    It was a game, a young man’s game, a giant outdoor sport, until near the end of our training we were introduced to hand-to-hand combat and, even worse, bayonet drill.

    “Parry his weapon aside with yours. Now! Lunge for his chest or stomach! Plant that bayonet deep! If you have trouble getting it out, use your boot against his chest and yank hard. Parry, thrust. Parry! Thrust!”

    It was only a dummy with a blank face, but training for war had quickly taken a serious turn from fun and games to the horrible reality of kill or be killed. One day the dummy would have a real face.

    At the end of this period, I was promoted to PFC, Private First Class, a fully trained and qualified infantryman, but not eager to receive a red badge of courage. Before we left Atterbury for a weeklong furlough at home, the company commander posted our future assignments outside HQ.

    There were two lists. Half the company would go to Korea. The other half was going to Europe. My name appeared near the top of one alphabetical list:  Anderson, Richard. A., US 55355951 . . . Europe!

    I watched others quietly accepting their assigned fates. Did I deserve to feel elated? I shrugged off the guilt I felt almost as strongly as I did relief. In spite of my training, I was not a soldier. But neither were the others, boys from the farms, hamlets and cities of Minnesota, North Dakota and Wisconsin for the most part, young men I had shared a canteen with after a hard day in the field, or helped shoulder a BAR or other heavy load. I couldn’t feel good about them picking the straw that sent them into combat, but I couldn’t feel bad about landing on the other list.

    “Dolly, I will be home on Monday on furlough. I have orders to muster in New York City and ship overseas in a week. I want to see you every day, every night until I have to leave.”

    The week sped by, filled with kisses, talk and promises. Then it would be many months before we would meet again.

(To be continued)

Richard Allen Anderson http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com