(From 2006… In response to a discussion this morning at work about posers who wanted to derive some perceived benefit from looking or acting like soldiers.)
I have a different slant. I was at Fort Polk from November of 1970 to May of 1972 as a drill sergeant, and I watched some of our young soldiers choose not to participate.
When I started my stint at Polk, the draft was still in full force. Our trainees were a mix: draftees, enlistees, reserves, and national guard. Here’s how that broke down in terms of tendencies to go over the hill:
Reserves and national guard: Almost never. A reservist who went AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave) was automatically placed on active duty upon his capture. Most of these guys had to fight, kick, claw and pull strings to get slots in the reserves during the Viet Nam war, and they weren’t about to risk losing those slots and getting put on active duty. I don’t rmemeber any reserve components going AWOL in my army experience.
Draftees: The average draftee was a full year older than the average enlistee. Many but not all were more mature, and generally were acceptant of their fate. They were going to endure their two years and go back home. 15-25% of our AWOLS were draftees.
Enlistees: Ahhhh! Here’s the gold mine! First, let me say that the majority of the enlistees were good people who’d decided to volunteer to serve their country by joining in its defense. Some, quite a few, actually, saw it as a way to break the chain of generations in some small locality, and to get out and see the world. Some were following in the family tradition of military service. But some just saw one too many war movies and wanted to be a hero to impress a girlfriend or to satify some other transient urge. And in 1970, when you raised your hand, you were IN. You signed your name for three years, your a** was Uncle Sam’s for three years.
And sometime in the first few weeks in the army, these young heroes learned that before we let them storm the beaches at Normandy, they were going to endure the tender ministrations of basic and advanced training. Yes, they’d get to play with guns. But they’d also endure an hour of physical training six days a week. KP. Barracks cleaning parties. Latrine swabbing. Interminable hours marching and double-timing (running) from one training area to the next. Classrooms. Tests. And all this far away from mommy who always loved them, and from their cozy group of loser buddies.
For some young would-be soldiers, this was too much. We’d start the training cycle with 250 trainees, and typically, four or five would go AWOL. Every morning, Monday through Saturday, we’d start the day with a company formation: everybody out of the barracks, wearing the uniform of the day, standing nice and neat in even rows. My platoon was usually forty men, give or take a few, four ten-man squads. Each trainee squad leader would give his verbal report to the trainne platoon guide, and the platoon guide would turn and give me the report. I would then turn and give the report to the field first sergeant, a senior drill sergeant. “Fourth Platoon, Two on sick call, two on KP, one AWOL.”
“Who’s the AWOL, Sergeant L.?”
“Private Smith, First Sergeant.”
“Roger. Turn his stuff in to the supply sergeant.”
And while the company went off on the morning run, we’d go open the AWOL’s locker and inventory and pack up his meager belongings. Army issue field gear and bedding went back into the supply system. Uniforms and personal effects were inventoried and sent to the supply room for storage. For basic trainees, that wasn’t much. In 1970, a basic trainee wasn’t allowed civilian clothing, and personal effects were restricted to that which could be stored in a tiny area in his footlocker and wall locker. That usually amounted to a bundle of letters from home and maybe a paperback book or a few magazines.
So here we have our young soldier headed over the hill. He’s got a problem. He LOOKS like a trainee. Buzz haircut. Almost new fatigues. On foot. Most of the post taxi service were retirees, and they knew the look well. Many of them would pick up the trainee, and when he told the the destination as “Leesville Greyhound Station”, they’d drop him right back off.
The bus station in Leesville was the only public transportation out of the area, and a quick visit there was interesting, too, because you’d look around and there one was: buzz haircut and brand new Levis, no luggage… It was a safe bet you’d spotted an AWOL. Oh. And combat boots. Shiny combat boots. Your average AWOL trainee didn’t spring for a pair of civilian shoes, and wearing his “low-quarters”, the 1950?s looking shoes that went with the dress uniform, that would have been a give-away when he was hot-footing it off post to the first civilian clothing store in his fatigues.
During this time, the army required you to have either a pass or leave papers to leave the post, and occasionally the Leesville police would make a swing through the Greyhound station and round up a few AWOLs. These would be delivered to the Fort Polk Miltary Police station, and those kind folks would call us. Occasionally we could talk the MP’s into delivering the captive, but just as likely, somebody’d have to go to the MP station and pick him up. You can probably imagine the conversation on the return trip back to the company…
One sad little AWOL, though, came back and turned himself in. I was in the orderly room chatting with the first sergeant that day. We heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” said the first sergeant.
In walks the prototypical AWOL trainee: buzz haircut, new Levis, combat boots. And a fading bruise on his cheek. “I want to turn myself in. I been AWOL,” he says.
“I know who you are, trainee,” says the first sergeant. “Why’d you come back?”
“I got home,” said the trainee. “My girlfriend had a new guy. She didn’t want to see me. And Dad whipped my ass and tole me to get back here. So here I am.” He’d been gone four days.
A week out, and he’d have had to be “re-cycled”, sent to another basic training company to make up training. He was still eligible for court-martial, though, although the guidelines didn’t usually apply courts-martial for absences of less than a week. I walked him to the supply room to get his stuff. “Do we really need to do this?” I asked. “I mean, if you’re just gonna haul a** again…”
“Oh, no, drill sergeant,” he said. “I screwed up bad. I ain’t gonna mess up again.”
And he didn’t. He stood in front of the battalion commander for non-judicial punishment, three months at half pay, and extra duty and restriction to the company area for the rest of his basic training. And he never screwed up again. Actually turned out to be a pretty decent young soldier after that, even though every officer and drill sergeant watched him.
Some stories start out bad, but get better.
