CHAPTER 22
A sign at the entrance to New Jersey's Fort Dix proudly proclaims it to be the HOME OF THE ULTIMATE WEAPON . New recruits and draftees, passing through the gate as they arrive for Basic Combat Training, cannot help but see it and realize that it is both a promise and a challenge. A soldier's performance during the next ten weeks will ultimately determine whether the prophesy is fulfilled, but the expectation, from that first glimpse of the base from a bus or car window, is that the men who enter will come out machines of war.
On the day that Andy and I passed that sign for the first time, February 4, 1970, it was covered in snow, the words obscured. All of Fort Dix was, in fact, hidden by the snow, which blew across the roads in sweeping sheets and covered the buildings, turning them into gingerbread cottages complete with smoke rising from their chimneys. The effect was deceiving, as our time there could hardly be considered a fairy tale. Any illusions we might have held about the army experience were wiped away the moment we stepped off the bus into a frozen world whose bitter cold instilled itself in our bones, where it would remain until the heat of Southeast Asia began, at last, to bring about a thaw some months later. Our induction had been surprisingly swift, the army's relief at finding willing reinforcements on their doorstep greasing the notoriously slow-grinding gears of bureaucracy. I'd reported to the recruiting center on Friday, and by Monday the battery of required tests had been completed and everything was in order. Still reeling from my decision, I'd packed up my belongings, informed a surprised clerk in the student office that I was dropping out, and driven home to face my parents before I could even entertain second thoughts about having signed the forms the delighted recruiter had placed before me. The reaction my news elicited from my mother was unsurprising, but nonetheless difficult to take. At first disbelieving, she had accused me of playing an elaborate practical joke on her, refusing to accept that I had actually enlisted until I showed her the forms with their official-looking stamps and seals and signatures. Then her mood had switched, almost instantly, to one of anger and fear. Many tears were shed and accusations of familial disloyalty hurled, first at me and then at my father, who stood mutely by, not knowing how to comfort a woman who was convinced her son had just committed suicide. Finally, he had simply let her cry herself out until, weary with unhappiness, she had consented to being led to the bedroom, where she remained until Tuesday evening. When she reappeared, she had the faraway look of someone grieving for a lost loved one. And when she turned her eyes in my direction, it seemed she looked through me, as through a ghost.
My father admitted to me that he had given her several Valium, prescribed to him by his physician as a sleep aid several months before when he'd complained about insomnia. My mother would later develop a dependency on them and other pharmaceuticals provided to soothe her steadily-unraveling nerves, sliding pill by pill into a dreary suburban take on Valley of the Dolls , complete with bouts of hysteria and paranoia. But for those few days I was thankful to have help in dealing with her anxieties. I had enough of my own, not the least of which was debating whether or not to tell Jack what I was doing. Ultimately, I let the day run out without phoning him, and on Wednesday morning rode with my parents to the recruiting center in Philadelphia. There I met Andy and his grandparents, who had gotten up well before dawn to make the six-hour drive across Pennsylvania. They were inside, along with the other new recruits and their families, enjoying the coffee and doughnuts set out by the army representatives there to greet us. My father shook hands with Andy and his grandfather, who nodded silently while his wife and my mother exchanged looks of mutual commiseration.
Andy was ready and anxious to go, and when finally our names were called out and our assigned bus indicated, he gave his grandparents swift good-byes and headed for the door. I took a bit longer, embracing my mother and saying, "I love you. Don't worry, I'll be okay." She smiled nervously and blinked back tears while my father, speaking for both of them, said, "We're proud of you, Ned."
I joined Andy in the line for the bus, looking back only once and waving as I stepped aboard. We took our seats, and I surveyed the other men as they filed on. Most seemed to be my age, and I wondered how many of them were there voluntarily and how many only because they'd been unfortunate enough to have been born on September the 14th or one of the other first-picked days. However they'd come to be there, we were now all heading for the same place, and by the pensive looks on the faces of those around me, we were all uneasy about what the future held.
Except for Andy, who tapped his hands on his knees and whistled, as if the rest of us were holding up his plans for the day. "Let's get this baby rolling," he said to no one in particular. It took about an hour and a half to travel the forty miles between Philadelphia and Wrightstown, our progress slowed by the snow. The entire time, the bus was almost completely silent. Even seatmates refrained from conversation, as if we were in church and our voices would disturb the saints and God. Those seated beside windows looked out them, while those on the aisle looked straight ahead or down at the floor. A few slept, their heads cocked to one side or another, jerking awake whenever the bus lurched or they came near to tipping over.
No one can prepare you for your first encounter with the army. From the moment you step off the bus and your feet touch the ground, you're reminded that your life is no longer your own. The military's recent ad campaign highlighting the power of the individual notwithstanding, the army is by necessity one unit comprised of millions. Comparisons to an ant colony or a beehive are obvious, but appropriate. Designed for function, the army requires its working parts to operate smoothly, without deviation from their assigned purpose and with absolute devotion to the work of the whole.
From the outset, that which makes you unique is stripped away, beginning with your name. The first thing I learned during my initial minutes at Fort Dix was that I was no longer Edward Canton Brummel, nor even Ned. I was Private Brummel. Even my surname was unimportant, as I would be expected to answer to any order given to the generic "private," assuming myself at all times to be part of the group. All of this was explained to me, loudly, by a sergeant whose face, red when he began his introductions, grew progressively redder as both his voice and aura of menace increased. Lined up in the snow, we did our best to act like the soldiers we were supposed to be as the sergeant moved from man to man, asking each of us why we were standing before him. Afraid to turn my head to see who was speaking, I heard only disembodied voices as men blurted out their reasons. "I was drafted, sir." "Because my father fought in Korea, sir." "It's my duty, sir."
I doubted that telling the sergeant that I was there because of a revelation received from a French existentialist philosopher would place me in high regard, either with him or my fellow recruits, so as I awaited my turn to answer, I tried to think of a more suitable reply. It did not occur to me to lie, and as my father had never served in the military, that was not an option. Nor could I honestly say that I felt it was my duty or obligation. Finding my options severely limited, I grew increasingly anxious as the men to my right grew fewer in number and my moment with the sergeant loomed. He reached Andy, who stood to my right, and I heard my friend say, "I'm here to kill the Commie gooks, sir."
The sergeant paused, and I saw the corners of his mouth rise ever so slightly as he appraised Andy. I couldn't tell if he was pleased or disgusted by Andy's answer. A moment later, the smirk was gone and he was nose to nose with me.
"Why are you here, private?" His breath was hot on my face. It melted the snowflakes that had come to rest on my eyelashes, and I felt water trickle into my eyes. Resisting the urge to blink, I blurted out, "I'm here to find out who I am, sir."
I regretted it instantly. I sensed the sergeant pause. His eyes bored into mine. He looked at me for a long moment before speaking. "I can answer that question for you right now, private. I can answer that question for every man standing here. Who you are—what you are—is a soldier in the United States Army. Nothing more and nothing l
ess. So now that we've answered your question, maybe you can give me a good reason for taking up space in my camp."
I felt the tension as every man in line waited for me to deliver a satisfactory response. Already I'd made the mistake of standing out, and unless I corrected my error as quickly as possible, I ran the risk of becoming known as a liability, even before doing my first push-up. In a matter of seconds, I foresaw my failure and wished I could get back on the bus and go home.
"I'm here to protect freedom, sir," I said hastily.
The sergeant nodded, apparently satisfied, and moved on. I waited until he was five or six men beyond me before allowing myself the deep breath I needed. It was my first lesson in the art of camouflage, and one I would find useful in the coming years.
Introductions over, the process of rendering us into our most basic forms continued as we were sent to the base's processing center for physicals and testing. Hours later, our heads shaved, teeth checked, and arms smarting from a series of inoculations, our initial reduction was complete. In our freshly-issued uniforms, we were virtually indistinguishable from one another, a group of strangers whose first order of business was to bond based solely on the shared fact of our being thrown together. Processing continued for several days, during which we discovered that we were now the men of Company D, one of three groups that would begin basic training the following week. We were further divided into four squads of twelve men each, using some unknown criteria assumably gleaned from the mental and physical tests we underwent throughout the days. I fell into A Squad. Andy was in C Squad, although it hardly mattered, as all four of our platoon's units would share a common barracks. Training began in earnest the next week, when we were symbolically "shipped out" from our processing quarters to our home for the next nine weeks, a drafty barracks whose heat came from a smoky coal stove and whose wood plank walls—cheaply and hurriedly constructed sometime after World War II and little improved since then—had chinks large enough to permit snow to come in. There we were stacked in bunks and our gear stored in footlockers, everything ordered with the precision for which the army is famed.
The details of Army Basic Combat Training are only barely of interest to the soldiers themselves, and to those unfamiliar with military life, a recitation of the drills and classes is almost certain to result in a loss of attention. Anyway, the depiction of this initial period of combat training in films and television programs has more than adequately provided all but the most unimaginative with a rudimentary understanding of the specifics and a more thorough appreciation for the overall effect it has on the young men who experience it firsthand. In short, it is difficult, sometimes brutal, and generally demoralizing. It is meant to be. BCT
was designed based on the notion that failure—at least in the early stages of training—forces a soldier to realize that he requires the assistance of his comrades in order to survive. By giving him tasks he can neither complete singlehandedly nor even in tandem with his unit perform to the demanded level of proficiency, he learns quickly that much more is required of him. The expectation is that in his desire to please he will rise to the occasion rather than let down his unit, his army, and his country. In general, it works. Eager to be seen as worthy of wearing the uniform, most soldiers discover they can indeed give their all when called upon. And it is a self-correcting system. Although popular depictions of basic training generally portray the drill sergeant as the primary motivating force for underperforming recruits, this is not altogether accurate. Of more importance is the internal pressure. Those who cannot meet the standards are seldom released from duty. Instead, they are recycled into another company and forced to begin the process anew. Faced with the prospect of having to endure humiliation all over again, and in front of classmates who will be aware of their initial failure, most men will do anything to redeem themselves.
Objectively, the process is easily viewed as being cruel, and to some degree it is. But a military exists, ideally, for one reason only—to defend a country and its allies. Accordingly, it requires members who are equipped for that purpose, and with limited time available to prepare combatants for service, it is not surprising that a force whose very existence depends on the efficient utilization of resources would look for the quickest route to supplying itself with soldiers.
There were times during those nine weeks—many of them—when I wished wholeheartedly that I had never made the decision to enlist. There were times when I wanted to give up, or cry, or even turn a weapon on the shouting, finger-pointing source of my unhappiness. But I cannot deny that there was also something magical about going through it with a group of men who, like I did, simply wanted to see it through to the end. This, not the ability to handle a gun, scale a wall, or dig a trench, is the real reward of BCT. During those hours marching through the snow and mud, shivering and miserable, my body broken and my psyche bruised, I became part of something.
Perhaps I was more vulnerable to the experience, never having been on a sporting team, nor, with the exception of the Boy Scouts, belonging to a tribe of any kind. Whatever the reason, I came to love the camaraderie of my squad, and the platoon at large. The men with whom I shared these daily travails became my friends. I came to know who they were, and I came to love them. It was like having brothers for the first time in my life, and although I think somewhere in our minds we never stopped thinking about what might happen to us at the end of our training, for those two months we were strangely happy.
CHAPTER 23
People often ask about sex between soldiers, particularly in a time when women were a rare sight on military bases. They are often strangely disappointed when I tell them that, based on my experiences, such encounters are more the stuff of fantasy than of daily life. For one thing, we were too tired. For another, the effect of intimate companionship is not generally arousal but desensitization. After seeing another man's morning erection on a repeated basis, it becomes more a point of good-natured ribbing than of erotic fixation. Which is not to say that I didn't find some of my platoon mates attractive. I did. But these thoughts were fleeting, at the most resulting in masturbatory fantasies acted out at night, when the snoring of my neighbors would cover any squeaking of my indiscrete bedsprings. It would be some time before I would have a physical relationship with another soldier. For the moment, I was more concerned with learning what I needed to know to stay alive in Vietnam. Although there was no guarantee that we would end up there (and ultimately only about one third of all soldiers serving during the Vietnam era did, and only a small percentage of those in combat), we all assumed that we would. After all, wasn't that why we had enlisted or been drafted, to continue the fight against the Communist followers of Ho Chi Minh? Although many of us feared what setting foot in Vietnam would mean, I think the majority of us would have been disappointed not to get there, especially after spending much of the winter on our bellies in the frozen mud.
I suppose this is difficult for those who weren't there to understand. The popular image today is of the Vietnam draft dodger running north to Canada or south to Mexico, burning his draft card, and moving from place to place, avoiding conscription at all costs. Largely, though, this is a figure whose mythology has been magnified well beyond his reality. Perhaps a hundred thousand young men out of the 2.2 million drafted (and an estimated five hundred thousand of the 24 million eligible but never called) avoided serving in this manner. Although often overlooked, the fact is that only about one third of the fighting force in Vietnam was comprised of men who were drafted, compared to two thirds in World War II and nearly one half in Korea. We were, by and large, a volunteer army, even if we had some reservations, and we did.
In discussions with my students about recent events in the Middle East, in particular the war in Iraq, I like to remind them that the Congress that voted to empower the president of the United States to use force against Saddam Hussein was comprised, by a vast majority, of lawmakers who never served in the armed forces, and who in many cases actively avoided se
rving. The president himself has a service record of questionable merit. In contrast, Vietnam was a war supported, at least initially, by men who had seen battle in Korea, just as Korea had been supported by men who had served in World War II. They understood, most of these men, what war was about. They understood what they were asking the young men of the country to do because they had been asked to do it before them. For this reason, I believe the actions of those who opposed Vietnam—either by refusing conscription or by actively protesting against the war in other ways—were deeply wounding to a great many people of previous generations. Since the army was the only branch of the armed forces utilizing draftees in significant numbers, those fearing death in combat could greatly reduce their chances of bodily injury by voluntarily joining any of the other three. Although dodging the draft is often suggested as the only option for avoiding an early death, the fact is that there were alternatives beyond simple refusal. Given these other possibilities, the question I ask my students to ponder is why someone would instead choose an action almost certain to result in stigmatization, if not prosecution and imprisonment? There are many perfectly acceptable answers to that, but chief among them is the argument that the majority of protesters nurtured the deep-seated conviction that war, for any reason, is wrong. This was a position the men of Company D found ourselves debating during basic training, not because our cadre asked it of us, but because it was at the heart of several incidents that changed, for some of us, our outlook on what we were doing.