The Importance of Military Discipline

ProetryPlace Blog 29 Soldiering and Such

Part 3:  The Importance of Military Discipline

    I scored 100 on whatever entrance exam I took that afternoon, and the Army decided to retain me at Camp Sheridan to act as a test proctor for even newer inductees. A temporary promotion in just 24 hours. I phoned my parents and Dolly to say I had not shipped out yet for basic training and would remain at Sheridan for at least a week.

    “Do they turn you loose for the weekend? I could come and see you,” Dolly offered.

    “Really? That would be great! I won’t be working, but I can’t leave the base. I’ll have Friday evening free, that’s all.”

    “I will leave here Friday afternoon,” she said. “I can take the train. I think it stops at Sheridan at 5 PM and returns at 9.”

    I saluted everything in sight on my way back to the barracks, thought twice about skipping, and for the first time since leaving home, sweet untroubled sleep came easily that night.

    My duty ended at four on Friday, plenty of time to shower and change before meeting Dolly at the PX a little after five. Singing in the Rain and High Noon were playing at the post theater. We’d have time for a movie if she wanted and a malt or burger later at the PX. It wasn’t raining on that January afternoon, but I felt like singing and dancing.

    The Army had other ideas. They invited me and the other 20-or-so soldiers-in-making in the barracks to a GI party at 5 PM. No need to RSVP—just be there. They graciously supplied all the mops, buckets and scrub brushes. Refreshments would not be served.

    “Swab down those floors and scrub ‘em till they shine.”

    I worked furiously, goading others to do the same, watching the minutes run beyond my control: 5:30, 6:00, 6:15.

    The sergeant proclaimed, “Good. The floors pass inspection.”

    I whistled with relief.

    “Now start on the latrines.”

    Son of a bitch! I’ll never get out of here!

    The sergeant had his own way to clean the latrine. “First let the sinks and urinals overflow. Then mop it up.”

    Any order, direction or suggestion would have outraged me at the time, and I felt obliged to critique his approach to the job. Unreasonably, he took exception to my highly vocal observations that this whole process was idiotic, really stupid.

    At 7 PM, Captain X, the Company Commander, kindly took time from his busy schedule to lecture me on the importance of military discipline.

    “You were insubordinate. The Sergeant is a non-commissioned officer with a job to do. You are a private who does the job. You obey his commands. You do not question.”

    Contrition seemed in order. “I know, sir. I lost my head.” I continued without permission to speak. “It’s just that my girl has been waiting at the PX for me for two hours. She came on the train from Milwaukee and has to leave at 9”

    “I’m sorry that the girl wasted her time and money, but you need to learn discipline.”

    “Yes sir. I know I was wrong to question the Sergeant.” I didn’t know how to play this. I stood at rigid attention to emphasize my point. “I am willing to accept whatever punishment you have for me, sir.”

    This display of responsibility and compliance seemed to pacify the captain. After a stern warning that I’d damned well better keep my ass clean for the rest of my time in his barracks, he released me. I grinned and assured him that he had never seen nor would ever see a more meticulous ass than mine.

    At 7:45 PM, I entered the PX, doubtful that Dolly had waited for me, not blaming her if she had not. My eyes searched the room and found her. She sat alone, glancing at the watch on her wrist. I ran to her, attempting a smile.

    “What on earth happened?” she asked, on the verge of tears. “They sent someone from your barracks to tell me you might not be able to come. They said you were in trouble.”

    “Dolly, I’m so sorry you had to wait. I’m so happy you did. God, I’m so glad to see you,” I gave her a quick rundown on how the Army was commanded by idiots.

    She said, “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

    We held hands across the white Formica tabletop while I explained as quickly as I could what hell I had gone through for the past hours trying to come to see her.

    She looked at me as she might have looked at one of her first-grade students. “You’ve been in the Army less than a week and you’re in trouble already. I can’t think what you’ll get into in the next two years.”

   The bright lights glared. The jukebox blared. Suddenly, it was time for her to leave.

    “I’ll take a cab to the train. You get back to the barracks before you are late for lights-out.”

    We walked outside. I felt like shit. She put a soft hand on my cheek and said, “Be sure to write. And stay out of trouble.”

    I kissed her warm lips, and we held each other in the dark, cold night until the cab arrived. She slipped into the back seat while I held the door and closed it reluctantly. I saw her give instructions to the driver, then turn to wave as they pulled away. Very much alone, I hurried back to barracks.

    In my bunk, with the lights out, I considered that my brief proctoring career had come to a sudden end and wondered what the Army had in store for me next.

(To be Continued)

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

Soldiering And Such (A Memoir)

ProetryPlace Blog 28 Soldiering and Such

Part 2

(At the end of Part 1, Blog 27, our hero, i.e. me, is left on a bus headed for Fort Sheridan, Illinois after being inducted into the United States Army.)

    Hours later, the gates of Fort Sheridan admitted us. Weary passengers disgorged from our bus and merged with other young men milling about along the side of the road. Streetlights tinted everyone ghostly yellow under the cold night sky. Confused Second Lieutenants regrouped us into smaller units, a mysterious military mix and match, and we were led to the mess hall nearby. My stomach ached from hunger.

   Inside, I cast a suspicion eye at the strange meat, camouflaged in thick, dark gravy that was spooned onto my tray. I hoped for the best, some kind of beef maybe, or it could be pork . . . turkey? With my first hungry bite, I knew its true identify—liver! I gagged, and spent my first night in an Army barracks with an empty stomach. Emotionally and physically depleted, I slept finally without pretense.

    A shrieking whistle woke me at 6 o’clock. “Gentlemen arise.” The sergeant’s magnificent baritone echoed through the cavernous room. “A new day has dawned.” Any hint of daylight was over an hour away. “Drop your cocks and grab your socks.” He advanced stiffly between the rows of double bunks lining the barracks walls, eyes ahead, seeing no one. “’cruits, listen up!” At the far wall, he wheeled and reversed direction. “Relieve yourselves, wash up, brush your teeth and make up those bunks, in that order! Fall out on the street at oh-six-thirty. Prompt.”

    He was gone, leaving the disheveled, half-awake “cruits” blinking and stumbling about under the harsh glare of bare-bulb ceiling lights. I complied with all except the first command, which modesty and empty bowels prevented. Ten shiny commodes stood side by side along the latrine wall, facing an equal number of urinals on the opposite wall. No chance for privacy. I might never have a BM for the next two years!

    Marching to the morning mess, no one spoke while a short, skinny corporal walked alongside droning an occasional “hup, hup.” The dismal realization that I was no longer free to go my own way whenever I chose was becoming ever more clear, like the dawning of the gray winter sky. Strangers would control when and where I slept, when and what I ate, how and where I moved, even my allowed responses. This was just day two, with a promise of 728 more to come, and already I didn’t like any part of it.

    After breakfast, we marched, as well as civilians playing soldier can, to the barber. I stood in a long line, waiting again and watching all manners of male coiffures yield to the barbers’ shears, buzzed efficiently to stubble with just eight or ten sweeps of the droning clippers, front to back, front to back, zip it’s gone.

    “Next.”

    So this is how Sampson felt. My vainly treasured waves were shorn, and I became a skinhead, distinguishable from the other skinheads only on close observation.

    “Move out to the next station.”

    I moved to the next station.     

    “Waste?” the uniform behind the counter asked.

    “Huh?”

    Exasperation: “What’s your waist size?”

    “Oh. Uh . . . 32.”

    “Take these. Move on.”

    I gathered up all the clothing foisted on me as I moved from one quartermaster clerk to the next along the line—one wool, khaki dress-uniform with pants, shirt, tie, cap and Eisenhower jacket, two cotton, olive drab fatigue sets, underwear, socks, boots, a fatigue jacket, a heavy, wool-lined trenchcoat and a duffle bag big enough to hold it all.

    “Move along,” a uniform with one stripe on his sleeve commanded and pointed. “In there.”

    I staggered with my load of hideous haberdashery into a large room with high tables, low benches and young men in various stages of undress.

    “Everything off,” another uniform commanded. “Put on your army underwear and Class A uniform. Make sure everything fits, including the cap, especially the boots. You’ll be wearing it all for quite a while.”

    I followed orders and crammed everything I was not wearing into the duffle bag. Leaving the room, I confronted a full-length mirror. At first, I thought I’d met someone entering the doorway and took a step back. Then I realized, that’s me. My god. That’s me. I stood at attention for a second, awestruck at the transformation the Army had wrought. Yeah, that’s me. It’s really me. GI Dick. I damn near saluted!

    The tag and stencil station was the last stop, critical to completing my identity metamorphosis. A quarter master corporal stenciled white paint on the outside of the heavy, canvas duffle. It labeled me as US55355951.

    “Make sure that matches your dog tags and hang ‘em around your neck.”

    I had become an eight-digit serial number. The “US” showed that I was a draftee, not Regular Army, or “RA,” the designation some received. I thought, RA. . .hmm . . . but that’s me, R. A. Anderson. Yeah, Anderson,  Richard Allen Anderson, yeah.

(to be continued)

http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

11-11-11

ProetyPlace Blog 27 11-11-11

    Each year on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, our elementary school class took pause from whatever study we currently pursued to solemnly stand and face the east, hand over heart in silent reverence and remembrance of those who fought in  World War I, the “War to End All Wars.”

    In 1954, Armistice Day was amended to Veterans Day, a day to honor all who served in the military during the ensuing WWII and Korean Wars. Now, 95 years after that 1918 armistice, we shall again pay tribute to those veterans who have sacrificed so much to help preserve our freedom and our way of life.

    The extent of their sacrifice and their suffering became again dramatically clear as I recently watched the movie, War Horse, and several episodes of Downton Abbey set during WWI. Tomorrow morning at 11 o’clock, 11 November, 2013, I will once again pause to give silent thanks to all who have served and who are currently engaged in yet another distant war on my behalf. I invite you to join me in that.

    I am a proud veteran of the Korean War. Although I trained for 16 weeks to become a skilled infantryman, I gratefully did not see armed combat. I was sent instead to a remote and sleepy Army outpost in France and spent my time behind a desk at battalion headquarters fighting paperwork. The following is the first segment from my memoir of military service entitled “Soldiering and Such.”

Soldiering and Such: Part I

    The hardest part of joining the army was leaving home. Yes, I was 20 years old. Yes, I had survived and thrived those long summers away from home and family on the farm in Peshtigo when I was only 12—no email, no telephone, perhaps a short note or two, read by lantern light before bedtime. But that was different, a home away from home, with people I knew and loved, free to explore and grow and act on my own volition. Besides, now there was a war going on.

    Mom kissed me on the cheek, and held me at arm’s length. “Stay out of trouble and do what they tell you. Do you have everything—your toothbrush . . .?”

    I said “Yes Mom. Bye now,” carefully examining the floor between us. I kissed her, a quick peck, and bounded down the front porch stairs, small handbag in hand. At the curb, I looked back as she raised a hand in a hesitant wave, then placed it softly on her mouth.

    I had taken it all for granted up until now—living in the familiar home of my youth, eating Mom’s home cooking, taking a full curriculum in nothing in particular at the Wisconsin State College in Milwaukee, borrowing the family car for occasional dates with Dolly.

    Then I had taken a break from academia to work full time at the Mautz Paint and Wallpaper Store on North Avenue, trying to earn enough to pay tuition and board at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. That is when my friends and neighbors sent me a special invitation to become a member of the United States Army, the army being pounded by the Chinese Peoples Army in Korea.

    I still saw Dolly most weekends. We were more or less exclusive by then, though I did not take that for granted. She was finishing her degree work in Elementary Education and would be taking a teaching job soon. I still had two years of undergraduate work to complete for a degree. After I moved to Madison, I would be able to see her only on holidays or whenever I could hitch a ride into Milwaukee. Now the Army had put another two-year hold on my already uncertain career plan. Our future looked shaky, at best.

    Dad took off work to drive me downtown to be inducted. I gazed out of the car window, not seeing the familiar city roll by, but suddenly feeling a deep sense of loss for what I was leaving behind. My dearest high school friend, Dave Mueller, a proud member of the United States Marines had died just weeks before, mortally pierced by fragments of a mortar shell somewhere on a snow-covered Korean mountainside. Would I ever see my family again?

    When Dad asked, “You okay?” I answered in a hoarse whisper, unable to speak aloud. Tears welled in my eyes. Shit! What’s he going to think? This is no way for a grown man to act. And Dad watched the road intently, without a sideways glance.

    Heroes in 1953 were still the strong and silent type. I’d seen them all, growing up, at Sunday matinees—Alan Ladd, John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, even Jimmy Stewart. Their calm and confident strength never yielded to tears. Sensitivity was not a virtue. They could take care of themselves. So would I.

   “Well, goodbye, Dad.” I choked back my emotions and recovered my façade of manliness by the time Dad and I shook hands just before noon. Maybe he couldn’t risk more intimate contact either.

    “Goodbye, Son. Your Mom will want you to write soon.” And I was alone in a crowd.

    I reported to a uniform holding a clipboard and joined the group of strangers on the bus that would carry us to Fort Sheridan, Illinois, my first excursion outside of Wisconsin. It was my first of many experiences with the Army’s “hurry up and wait” procedures. Dusk had settled on that January afternoon before the bus left, hours late. What kind of military discipline was this?

    In the darkness of the quiet bus interior, I felt my personal identity slipping away, becoming part of a heterogeneous mass. “I’m Anderson.” I introduced myself to my seat companion, a black named Bailey, then closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

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

ProetryPlace Blog26 TIME FLIES

    Since I have been posting these literature related commentaries each week, Blog 26 means that I’ve been playing this game for six months, half a year. During this time ProetryPlace has been visited just short of 1000 times while I have continued experimenting with the subject matter and form of the writing within the broad limits of poetry and prose. The majority of the writings have been nonfiction, dealing with the wonders of language in many forms. Others have included samples of my short stories and poetry.

    Today I am on vacation in the cold and colorful mountains of North Georgia. After we have bid a fond farewell to our weekend guests, we will settle back to a quiet week of reading, writing, dining out (or in), sampling some fine German draughts like Warsteiner Dark or Oktoberfest Brew, and visiting a few favorite shops and sights. The dwindling flames and ebbing sparks of the fireplace log each night will rekindle memories of previous travels and visits with family and friends. We recharge. We rejuvenate. We reminisce. And the time flies by.

    

    A lovely little poem, not mine:

Time flies like an arrow

Love flies like a sparrow

Fruit flies like bananas

    haiku in observation of the passing of Daylight Savings Time:

cruel Chronos laughed

watching mortals falling back

daylight savings lost

    And from my volume of poetry Another Season Spent:

Fall Back

I have an extra hour today

to use as may occur to me.

Reprieve, reprise, or red-hot new—

what will my extra hour be?

It’s a gift when daylight saving ends,

to throw away or keep.

Maybe I will read a book

or get some extra, needed sleep.

I have no plan to spend it well,

although I had fair warning.

One problem is—I cannot claim my gift

till two o’clock in the morning!

Set back the clock hands for one hour,

it should be automatic.

Yet, fulfilling all this encore time

is becoming problematic.

A list of chores looms now in mind,

un-started or undone.

Maybe I can use this hour

to list them, one by one.

Pad in hand and pencil poised

my vision’s getting bleary,

just writing all these undone tasks

is making me so weary.

Maybe I should rest a bit.

Let’s see what=s on TV.

But now my clicker thumb grows sore,

I can’t find anything to see.

I know what I can do

to commemorate this date!

I will write a clever, little poem—

but heck, now it is too late.

Richard Allen Anderson     richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

  **  Another Season Spent is available online from Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and Vabella                Publishing or by request from the author at WordWaggler@gmail.com     **

Cooperation: A No-Brainer

ProetryPlace Blog 25 Cooperation: A No-Brainer

    You have probably used the term “Right Brain” to refer to someone who may be a little absent minded, loves reading poetry and drinking tea in her silk pajamas and might be an accomplished musician, or you may have used the term “Left Brain” when describing your lawyer or accountant.

    Greatly oversimplified, the scientific theories of lateralization of brain functions between the cerebral hemispheres have been popularized to categorize distinctive personality types. Left brainers are described as objective critical thinkers whose brains excel at mathematics and language regarding the use of words and syntax. Right brain thinkers conversely are described as subjective, visual and creative with language abilities more associated with emotion and meaning than with rules.

    As a writer and especially as a poet, I wonder how or if these alleged brain machinations affect my writing and my reading and in retrospect, how they may have affected other activities of life. So, I Googled the subject and took a couple of the several online tests supposed to reveal brainedness.

    In high school I majored in math, science and English. I liked English best—loved reading the stories of Hawthorne, Poe and Shirley Jackson. Poetry not so much. In college, once I got past the day-long, class-cutting card games in the student union, I majored again in math plus chemistry and physics which left little time for the language, performing or visual arts. Then followed graduate school supported by a research fellowship in physical chemistry. The Right Brain/Left Brain theories had not yet been proposed. They helped Roger Sperry win the Nobel Prize in 1981.

    During my working career in industrial R&D at one of those peer interaction and evaluation activities, I was unanimously judged to be “analytical.” The majority of my thought processes were actually directed at designing highly innovative and exploratory research and experimentation with the invention of new materials and methods for producing them as a goal, but I also enjoyed manipulating and analyzing the experimental data to squeeze meaning from them. Right brain, Left brain or both?

    Then, abruptly, in retirement my word processor quickly took precedence over spreadsheet programs. I wrote short stories, memoir and nonfiction and dabbled in poetry. I replaced technical and scientific reading with reading the same genres that I wrote and books about creating them.

    Did this confuse my brain? Did it call into play parts of my brain that had lain largely dormant for decades? Could the brainedness tests clearly define what kind of thinker I am?

    I scored exactly 50% Right and 50% Left on the first test, a result that seemed to indicate and explain either everything or nothing. I found another, more comprehensive, test that was designed to enable students to improve their study habits. My results were skewed slightly Left at 53% versus 47% Right.

    My sister is a talented and creative painter, poet and cook. She earned a living for several years by writing the script for a daily radio show. She scored 41% Left, 59% right, somewhat more indicative possibly than my middle of the road results.

    New research results published just a few months ago recognize that certain brain functions take place primarily in one hemisphere of the brain or the other and yet found no evidence for greater use of either side of the brain versus the other in over 1000 subjects studied using MRI scans. The study further suggests that the brain works best when both halves work together, i.e. for Co-brainers.

    Albert Einstein was possibly the most creative and visionary thinker in history; at the same time he expressed himself with advanced, abstract mathematical concepts. Was he Left-brain or Right-brain?

    When he died nearly 60 years ago his brain was removed, preserved and studied. The most distinguishing feature of his brain did not relate to either left or right hemisphere but rather to the corpus callosum; this information pathway that communicates between the two halves was highly enlarged in Einstein’s brain compared to normal, average brains.

    The benefits of a cooperative approach, making the most of the best that both Left and Right can offer is not only intuitively pleasing but now has roots in scientific reality.

    Now, if only our politicians could be made to understand this.

Richard Allen Anderson http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com 28 October 2013

CLUELESS in CARROLLTON

ProetryPlace Blog 24          CLUELESS IN    CARROLLTON

    For quite a few years during which I was fully occupied with earning a living, helping rear a family in support of my wife’s primary efforts and occasional community involvements including terms on the city council, the Red Cross board and other civic organizations, I had little time for or interest in games.

    Even after our nest was empty and retirement implied some free time, I kept fully occupied developing new interests and shedding some older ones. For a while I found Sudoku a challenging amusement involving critical placement of just nine numbers. I became somewhat proficient and started to lose interest. Numbers were not enough. I was writing more and I felt an itch for words.

    One day, I picked up my wife’s crossword puzzle book and started filling squares. That did it. I have continued lettering squares ever since, finding satisfaction in the completed matrix and much more.

    The small daily puzzles in our small daily newspaper are graded in difficulty, becoming more and more challenging as the week progresses. Today, being Saturday, the usual 10 to 30 minute task stretched to an hour as I struggled with clues that were unusually obscure, deceiving or ambiguous.

    I thought I had nailed “Native of Moscow” with “Russian,” only to find the word I needed was “Idahoan,”  also seven letters ending with “an.” Similarly, clue 24-down “Bouquet.” Required the answer “smell,” not “scent,” “Santa’s team member” was “Donner” not “Dasher” and “turn” not “spin” was the only fit for the clue, “rotate.”

    I have no clue at all about some clues. These get filled in by answering parallel and perpendicular neighbors, and often are still not recognizable to me even when the puzzle is complete. So, after I have finished the puzzle, I grab my iPad to seek enlightenment through Google, Wikipedia or Webster.

    Today, I discovered that Galahad’s mother was Elaine, all the puzzle required. But Wikipedia supplied the additional information that he was illegitimate and that Lancelot was his father. Hanky-panky in King Arthur’s court again! Leave it to the French. I also learned that the long white gowns that various clergy and altar attendants wear cinched at the waist are called albs—a funny little word, don’t you think?

    How many people do you know who know the capitol of Ghana? It is Accra (11 across).  Did you know that Accra is a port city located on the southern coast of that big land-lump of the African continent that bulges out into the Atlantic Ocean? And did you know that it was settled three centuries after Paris, France but now has nearly one million great population? Neither did I, and I doubt that the crossword author did either.

    Reading a good crossword puzzle has some things in common with reading a good novel, nonfiction or poetry. In these works (excepting perhaps haiku) the author does not present herself directly to the reader. Yet in the end, a connection, a bond exists between the author and the reader. Often, establishing this subliminal link facilitates the understanding of crossword clues and recognition of underlying themes, enabling one to say to the author, “Aha, I see where you are coming from (or leading to).”

    So, do not belittle the lowly crossword as a form of literature. It aint Beowulf, but it has much to offer and takes less time than reading the same—unless you choose to research some of the answers.

    BTW, the photo is an internet image from the fascinating Ghana collection.

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