No, it didn’t call for a parade, in our case, but after six weeks of an “abbreviated”  infantry basic training, we graduated from Recruit to Private.

As I remember it, in those days of the early 1950’s, among enlisted soldiers, designations, the ranks upwards were about as follows:

E-1 - - - Raw Recruit

E-2 - - - Private (still no shoulder stripe)

E-3 - - - Private First Class (one stripe)

E-4 - - - Corporal (two stripes)

E-5 - - - Staff Sargeant (three stripes, one rocker)

E-6 - - - Sargeant First Class (three stripes, two rockers)

E-7 - - - Master Sargeant (three-up, three-down)

E-8 - - - Field First Sargeant (three stripes, three rockers, diamond in the middle)

And so it went, until, if you were in the army long enough and showed a great deal of enlisted leadership, you might becone a division, corps or army Master Sargeant, but I forget texactly how that went.

In any event, you say that I missed the grade of “Buck Sargeant” - - - three stripes only?  Yes, I did - - - a grade between E-4 and E-5, because in my day, that carryover from World War II had, somehow, been eliminated from the enlisted ranks, maybe only temporarily, as army thinking changes.

And there were pay grades attached to the various promotions.  As I recollect it, a Private E-2 then earned $82.50 a month.  PFC was somewhere around $90.00 a month and Corporal, above that, and Staff Sargeant something like $104.50 a month.  After that my memory fades, although I left the army in 1952 as a Staff Sargeant, mostly earned in Korea; but more about that, later.

Of course, there was a secondary course of training to go thorugh, after the type set of “light weapons infantryman” which the army designates as a “4745 M.O.S” (military occupational specialty) which all of us now were.

We were all eager to learn of our next assignment and our next post, whatever and wherever that might be.

So, on cue, there was a “fallout” in the company street where this mystery could be unravelled, early (about 5 aA.M.) on our last morning at Fort Knox.

The Company First Sargeant called off our names, as they had been placed on our orders.

Most of us found out that we had been assigned to Camp (now “Fort”) Gordon, Georgia, for MP (Military Police) training.  Why that, we didn’t know, but the army had a way of training people for a lot of different M.O.S.’s, which few of us were ever to use later.

So, with that crumply, brown paper in hand which named “FOL EM” (Following Enlisted Men) ordered to a new geographical area, we marched to the train which would carry us to Camp Gordon.

This was near Augusta, Georgia, and would be our home for the next six weeks. Scuttlebut had it that this might be easier duty, compared to our infantry basic trainnig.  Only time would tell.

But the Company Commander had come out with some platitudes, such as “You were good soldiers!”

In the 1950’s, the standard uniform in which most soldiers were clothed was a carryover from World War Two, and in my opinion, far less style-conscious than they are now.  In other words, for some snippet of time, the “tunic” which was and is now about the length of a suit coat, was out of fashion.  With my short torso and long legs, I much preferred the tunic style, which better complimented my somewhat out-of-proprotion physique.

In any event,  uniforms were separated into “classes,” i.e., “Class A,” “Class B,” and “fatigues” (maye that was “Class C” - - - I don’t remember!).

“Class A” consisted of (depending on the weather) either a cotton sun-tan shirt, or “O.D.” - - - wool or cotton tie, wool trousers and an “Ike” or “E.T.O.” jacet.   This latter item was the bane of my existence, as it always bunched up around my waist, and I was forever trying to straighten out that ever-present fold at my belt line, in an effort to look trim.

“Class B” usually encompassed the same dress, without the outer jacket.

“Class C?” or fatigues were cotton outer jackets, with large front pockets, for building grenades and other stuff useful in the field, with cotton trousers having high- capacity pockets on each side of one’s leg.

With “Class A,” and on the shirt lapels of “Class B,” we were issued stamped brass insignia, which were pinned in place with a snap -fit holder behind the pin, to keep them in place.

As one’s military experience progressed, cloth insignia of rank or unit were sewed on the right or left sleeves of the Ike jacket or the shirt underneath, with NCO stripes on each arm, and present unit affiliation on the left arm, with prior unit affiliations on the right arm.

Brass insignia dulled frequently, with exposure to climate conditions and handling.  The solution was to polish the brass items with a “Blitz Cloth” which could be purchased at the Post Exchange (P.X.).  This was a piece of cloth, impregnated with a fine-grit polishing compound that, when rubbed over the brass and wiped off, brought out the shine in the brass.

We all bought “Blitz Cloths” and worked on our brass in the evenings, to bring it back to life with a sparkling shine, duelling the sun.

Years later, I parked my car outside of my dentist’s office, which he could see, through a window.  I had just washed and polished it.  The dentist said “Boy your car looks good!”  And I replied, “It ought to - - - I just blitzed it!”

A querelous look came over the dentist’s face, until I realized that he had never been exposed to “blitzing,” as I had been.  So I merely explained to him that I had washed and polishyed the car body, this accountig for its sparkling condition.  The dentist then put together “blitzing” and “polishing” as interchangeable terms, and we both smiled.

Every soldier I have ever met looks forward to Mail Call as one of the few bright spots among the drudgeries and ego-destroying events of his barracks existence.

Accordingly, Mail Call needed no urging among us recruits for its total attendance, when it occurred.

At that time, Mail Call was conducted by a regular army non-commissioned officer, usually a corporal, and,  in our case, someone whose skills in reading and doling out mail might have been neglected in whatever education he might previously been subjected to in his formative years.

Whatever,  the “mail clerk” usually stood on the steps of the barracks, surrounded by a full complement of barracks residents, eagerly awaiting his announcement of their names, if any.

The military recognizes that a soldier’s receipt of his incoming mail is not only a substantial but an irreplaceable factor in that soldier’s morale - - - underline that word.

When a soldier’s name was called out by some mail clerks (who might have had trouble printing their own names in block letters) the recipient’s name was, often, and more likely than not, utterly mispronounced by whoever called them out, especially if one had an ethnically-derived last name.

I remember one Mail Clerk, able to read “James” or “Smith,” fumbling the other soldiers’  birthright pornouncements (their last names) by volunteering, out loud that “some of you guys have the damned names” (as if we were responsible for his own lack of ability to read our names).

Most of us did receive mail - - - from our mothers, fathers, family member, and friends, and they were major morale boosters, whose effects lasted beyond the original mail call, with many of us reading over these missives from the “outside world” a number of times after the date of their original receipt.

And, like the politicians who determined our destinies, we did, indeed, have a “franking privilege,” that is, we did not need a stamp in order to mail our letters back to our civilian connections by simply writing “Free” in the upper right hand corner of our envelopes, at a place where a postage stamp otherwise would have been.  The joys of army life!

Very few recruits threw away any of the mail that they received, no matter how long ago, while in service, unless the contents of a given letter might have been best to forget, such as a romantic breakup or some other disconcerting event or prior relationship.

For one, I treasured my accumulated mail, and saw to it that it occupied a special place in my foot locker or my duffel bag, as we moved, from one post to the other.

As I’ve mentioned, earlier, Fort Knox was (and probably still is) a massive military reservation, known, then at least, as “The Home of Armor” (tanks).

As I recall it, the 3rd Armored Division called it their home, as well.

We weren’t sure on this point, but it appeared that certain events took place involving those tanks on what was called “a night exercise,” and on some nights you could hear cannonading far away on the grounds, involving tank manouvers as they dueled against a supposed enemy force, with ordnance blazing.  The sounds we heared were somewhat muted by the time they reached our ears, but it sounded as if the tank corps meant serious business.

You former GI’s will remember some of the other ranges involved in your or our basic training, such as:

1) The hand grenade range.  This was a “dummy” operation, carried on with inert “fragmentation grenades,” that look like small pineapples with a lever on the side, held shut by a looped pin, which was removed by the user for activation under combat conditions.

Our instructors were dead serious on the employment of this lethal instrument, and the routine we were taught, went like this:

“Lying down flat on your back, take grenade - - - pull pin - - - rolling over on your stomach, hurl grenade” - - - over a slight rise, in thise case, as we were in a small depression simulating, for instance, a hole made by the landing of an artillery round or some natural area of concealment.  Most everyone passed this relatively simple exercise.

2) Then there was the “Bazooka Range.”  We weren’t allowed to operate this sophisticated equipment, but were excited to watch its devastating power in use.

In those days, they used the WWII 2.36″ shaped charge.  This looks like the small rocket that it is.  It is propelled at a target, usually an enemy tank or a fortified position, such as a machine gun emplacement.  In the case of an enemy tank, we were told to try for a side shot, where the armor was supposed to be thinner, rather than a frontal shot, where the armor was thicker.  Hopefully, a side shot might disable the tracks of the tank, which might then unpeel off of their sprockets, rendering the tank unable to maneuver further.

Trained cadre displayed their equipment to us with one man acting as the loader of the tube, from the rear, and another man shouldering the front of the tube and triggering the shot.  A stern admonition was NEVER TO LOOK INTO THE REAR OF THE TUBE AFTER LOADING, as some hapless GI’s had previously been known to have their faces burned off by the rearward blast of the propellant.

On demonstration, the cadre fired at a much-perforated old tank chassis. The “hit” caused little seeming disturbance to the exterior armor, but the “shaped charge” through its small entry hole, raised hell insde the structure, with pieces of molten metal flying about, and “doing in” the tank occupants.

Like all proper recruits, I tried to “tow the line,” in spite of what I thought about the regimentation of all of us, involving living under military discipline.

But not all the recruits shared our general submission to those about us in rank.  One of these “rebellious” fellows was an acquaintance of ours who announced to us that he considered some facets of military discipline to be not only demeaning to him (as most of us did), but something he did not intend to tolerate any longer.

So, when the First Sargeant told him that he was scheduled for KP duty, he replied that he wouldn’t do it.  The First Sargeant ordered him to tell that to our Company Commander, who had no better results with this recalcitrant recruit.

To deal with this matter, the Company Commander had the First Sargeant call out all of the barracks residents, in formation, and at attention.

“Now,” he said, “I want you to repeat why you won’t go on KP duty, like the rest of these men.”

The “rebel” cooperated, and said to the lietenant: “Sir, you may take your mess hall, round off the corners, and ram, cram and jam it up your a–.”

That was it, the Rubicon had been crossed.

The Company Commander, then and there, ruled that for this insubordination, the guilty party would undergo “company punishment.”

Before our time, that consisted mainly in the guilty party digging a “6-BY” - that is, a hole 6 feet wide by 6 feet across by 6 feet deep.  Greater heads had considered the routine to be counterproductive and too disturbing of nearby compacted soil.

So it was ordered that the “bad guy” should stand at “parade rest” with his rifle in full combat dress, for no less than three days, in front of the barracks, for all to see, and maintaining a rigid silence and without any visible grimace on his face.

Such was accomplished, and we used to pass by our barracks-mate under his somewhat self-imposed condition of ultimate compliance.

Yes, that was a lesson for all of us.  No one refused KP duty after that.

And our Field First Sargeant, a regular army veteran of the European wars, would often allude to the actions of “that jerk” whose disobediance under orders might at some future time prejudice the lives of the rest of us.

We got the message and realized that unit cohesiveness of obedience was a paramount consideration for communal survival. 

P.S. - - At the end of his punishment, the perpetrator was contrite and realized the error of his ways.

Our Mess Hall was in a separate one-story frame building, run by the Mess Sargeant who was, by all measures, less “understanding” then the Company First Sargeant.  The latter NCO seemed always, in my experience to be a stern disciplinarian but, underneath his military manner, the First Sargeants I came across were always nicer men underneath the pressures of their duties.

Anyway KP (Kitchen Police) duty was something all recruits undertook with no small degree of trepidation, causing one of them to recoil, in his way. (More about that under “Company Punishment” in a later episode.)

The Mess Sargeants I encountered seemed always to have come into service from the “Deep South,” with given first names like “Billy Bob” or “Jimmy Joe,” for instance.  But, perhaps their dispositions were, at least in part, accounted for by their responsibilities to see to the feeding of a company of men on a 3-time-daily basis, with clock-like efficiency paid to the scheduling of meals, and cleanliness and disease prevention as uppermost considerations.

In those days, at least, four of us would be selected for KP on a rotating basis.  At lesat two men were assigned to the setup of the mess tables, with two more assigned to help the others clear the tables after each “mess” and all four to join in to clean the silverware (huh!), plates, and cups and pots.

Pan washing and sanitation techniques,  promoted by boiling hot water usage, helped to assure hospital-like disease prevention. 

Most guys tried to shun the “pots and pans” detail if they possibly could do so as the boiling hot water was intimidating to all. 

If there was any lull in a KP’s duty day, the Mess Sargeant determined to keep all of the us busy, scrubbing the mess hall floor between every meal, and even the outside steps, considering the recurring dirt brought in on the boots of the oas well as their “gear” (uniform items) after training exercises.

Once, after all periodic chores had been accomplished for the present, I leaned back against a mess table, to rest my bones and my thoughts, when the Mess Sargeant caught me at my tempoary repose.  From memory the following colloquy took place:

Him:  “Hey slim; you got nuttin’ to do?”

Me:  “Just taking a break, Sargeant.”

Him:  “Well, I got a job for you.  Git yerself a bucket of hot, soapy water, and GI (scrub)  them back steps!”

Me:  “Yes, Sargeant” - - - and I did as I was told, as the rear steps to the mess hall, near the “grease trap”  hadn’t been attended to as yet on that day.  I did as I was ordered to do, got the “hot soapy water” in a bucket, and, together with a GI hard bristle hand brush, I scoured those back steps, by hand, until you could (almost) eat off of them.

After that I joined my fellow KP’s in drying off multitudes of knives, forks and spoons all at once in a clean mattress cover.

Before going out on bivouac or “into the field,” so to speak, we had certain indoor “classes” about how to keep as personally clean as one could under “field” or “combat” conditions.

Our instructor for one of these classes was our Company Commander, a First Lieutenant (one silver bar) who, as I’ve probably mentioned, was commissioned from enlisted status as I heard.

This was Lieutenant Harvey Keator, who knew whereof  he spoke.

He told us that, unlike the field conditions which we were soon to face, where we could douse our mess kits in the water of a steel garbaege can-like thing, filled with water, we may sometmes have no such water available.  If so, believe it or not, if any food residue were to be left in our mess kits, after eating, we were to wipe them out as best we could, with whatever was available - - - but then, if any grease, etc. happened to be left, we were to “purge” it with sand or even dirt, collected nearby, to act as a scouring mechanism, then wipe out whatever was left with the sleeves of our fatigues, a handkerchief, or bits of toilet paper.  (We were issued 10-20 flat sheet of toilet tissue for field use.)

If nature came to call for product elimination in the field, we were to dig a small hole in the ground with our entrenching tools, squat over it, and proceed - - - not like your usual commode!

Illustrating this “technique,” so to speak, the lieutenant recalled a somewhat humorous, yet self-effacing event from his past experience.

“There we were,” he said, “on maneuvers - - - and I had to go!  So I dug my hole, squatted, and did my duty - - - but, just then, someone fired a flare right over my position which illuminated my two white buns for all arond to see!”

Enough said?  Lesson:  try to do your duty in the dark, if you can.  As the recruits chuckled, they learned a lesson about the pros and cons of relieving oneself in the field.

Anyhow, the other form of elimination was no problem for the troops consisting of all men, making me wonder what lady soldiers in our present army might be faced with.

An episode comes to mind, in a movie (about 1949) of troops in the Battle of the Bulge, who had propaganda leaflets showered on them, calling for their surrender, German aircraft.  One scene showed a resolute infantryman picking up all of the leaflets which he figured he needed, then walking off to answer the call of nature, with his intended use of the leaflets as replacements for toilet tissue.

How about that?  It’s what came to be called a “field expedient!”

Personal sanitation has always been uppermost in the minds of military health personnel, and it was emphasized to us in countless ways.

For instance, while on barracks duty in the old frame buildings we inhabited, daily showers, just as in civilian life, were, or should have been, the order of the day.  Probably four shower points in communal fashion (no shower stalls or curtains) were located in our corner of  the “latrine” where troops could shower together, and they were always running in the off hours, mostly in the evenings as we tried to rid ourselves of the grime and perspiration acquired in a day’s training exercises.

The latrine also contained a row of commodes out in the open, with no partitions between them.  No place for the bashful!  Across from them was a row of sinks or lavatories with mirrors on top, for tooth brushing, hand washing, etc. most in constant use in the off hours.

So most of us recruits made full use of these facilities, which were in a lower section of the barracks at one end, complete with a concrete floor for easier maintenance.

The rotating job of “barracks orderly” saw to the presentable conditions of this area so as to qualifiy them as fit for inspection and use.

For laundry purposes, we were issued a paper ticket for what we sent out to the post laundry on a weekly basis.  We listed our names, the items sent out, such as socks, underwear, fatigues, etc. with the last four digits of our army serial numbers (in my case “3686″) for the return of our laundry to us.   Believe it or not, I never lost one item - - - a remarkable case of military efficiency!

In our barracks, most all of us observed our personal hygiene, religiously.  However, there was one fellow who was not quite as religious about his personal hygiene as the rest of us.  He was one of the nicest, most even-tempered individuals you could ever meet, so, for the longest time no one wanted to mention to this man anything about his almost never sending out his own laundry, until his “T-shirt” developed a shade of gray as he wore it, with accompanying odors.

We appealed to our “cadre” for suggestions as to how to solve this problem, diplomatically.  There was no diplomatic solution offered.  Instead, we were told about the “G.I. Brush” (used to scour floors and appliances, otherwise) - - - and “green soap” - - - the G.I. substitute for our mother’s old “American Family” scouring bar.  This procedure required three or four troops to volunteer to hold the subject under the communal shower, if need be, fully dressed, and to subject him to the hard bristles and unforgiving lather of the “green soap.”

A few of us finally mentioned his problem to our baracks-mate, who protested that he didn’t realize his offensiveness, so apparent to the rest of us, and when the solution was suggested, he was appalled.

“Oh no,” he responded, and immediately made out his unused laundry slip and took off for the showers.  This “gentle reminder” worked, and he got into the regimen of his personal hygiene, as if he just got religion.

Problem solved!  But I still wonder how it would be solved now, with girls in the barracks!

“Field Trainig” was the order of the day.  That meant a whole host of things to us, as the yet-uninitiated “recruits.”

For one thing, we were exposed to “overhead artillery.”  In short, we were marched to an open field and told to lie down, with our arms folded over our eyes.  Then at someone’s command, what you might call a “barrage” began - - - over our prone persons, that is.  To me, the sound of passing cannon rounds sounded like the approach and the retirement of a freight train as I experienced it in my youth.  Of course, the artillery rounds landed far enough away from us, and not in our midst, as in real combat.  But the proper element of fright had been instlled in all of us, with most recruits thinking - - - “What if?”

After that, there was “assault and transition” firing.  This amounted to two cadre, one on each side of a recruit, advancing into a field of “pop up” targets - - - human shapes on framed paper - - -  with our rifles using live ammunition.  The targets come up without warning, at unexpected locations, in front of us, to our right and to our left.  They were supposed to represent enemy soldiers and to test our reaction to a supposed menace.

Our rifles had been put on “lock and load” and we were supposed to release their “safeties” and hit the targets.  Ouy of a dozen or so “pop up” targets my nervousness caused me to miss all but two, and I think that I only “winged” each of them.  What a soldier!

We were separated, by squad, into “friendly” and “enemy” troops.  Our squad, the “Blues” were assigned to defend a “perimeter” against an expected assault by “Reds” - - - the enemy.

It was daylight, and we took what we thought were proper nmilitary precautions; that is, four men on perimeter guard and the rest of us on “alert” status.

We were in a rolling, wooded area, with rolling mounds providing “cover” for the expected attack on our position by the “bad guys.”  I was one of the “alerts,” and everyone tried to keep his eyes open for the enemy, wherever he might appear.

Nothing happened that morning, and by the afernoon we all thought that the enemy had bypassed us and was, maye, seeking out other “perimeters.”

But, just the opposite happened!  It developed that one of our perimeter guards had, temporarily deserted his post to relieve himself, out of public view.  Our “enemy” took note of this, and was able to sneak past this guard post and surprise us, with unloaded rifles pointed at us to signal our “capture.”

Yes, the “Reds” won that one, and we had to be escorted by them, with our hands raised above our heads, to the “umpire” who declared them the winners.

Failure of combat procedures?  Lack of military technique?  Prowess of our enemies?  Who knows, for sure, but we “Blues” were a disappointed, chagrined, and humbled group of BUDDING warriors!

If you are the outdoor-type, you might even like Bivouac.  It somewhat resembles a Boyscout Jamboree, but on a much more serious note.

I refer to the Army’s version of an outdoor camping experience, designed to show how soldiers react in what they call “The Field” - - - that’s a rugged, forested part of the military reservation where all of this takes place.

Each “troop” (as we all got to be called) was equipped for this with his rifle, entrenching tool, helmet, field jacket, bayonet, fatigues and “horseshoe roll.”  This latter item was worn across the back of the shoulders and consisted of a G.I., olive-drab wool blanket wrapped into a water-repellant length of canvas (?) with “tent pegs.”  The idea was to choose your buddy, who had the other shelter half, to make a “pup tent” for two men for nighttime use - - - i.e., 2 shelter halves made one “pup tent.”

Usually, the weather cooperated to bring on rain by nightfall and, for purposes of rudimentary drainage, we were told to dig little trenches around the perimeter of each tent, supposeldly to try to keep water from entering the tent - - - and we did just that.

Well, my tent partner and I erected our shelter, after cleaning away many stones, rocks, tree roots and earth mounds, to try for a level sleeping surface - - - even so, the ground didn’t feel like mattress at all, and it seemed that, whatever your position on the ground, comfort was the last thing you could experience, taxing our ingenuity to cope with what the army called a “field expedient” - - - translation:  “good luck - - - you’re on your own!”

Sure enough, it rained on most nights of our bivouac sleeping events. And we found out several things: 

1)  If it rained hard enough (as it always seemed to do) the little drainage ditches we had dug around our tent overflowed into our “sleeping quarters” giving rise to liquid misery amid our interrupted dreams, and

2)  Our shelter halves, joined together at the top were only “water repellant” - - - not “water proof” - - - where the rain water laid on top unless one of us touched or otherwise made contact with the underside of the fabric, in which case water was encouraged to shower down on us, as the so-called “seal” was broken.

Being fearful of it rusting, and unable to pass numerous inspections, I slept with my M-1 under my GI blanket, and close to my body.  That seemed to work - - - for me at least.

I don’t think anyone got much sleep, from the tents I could see in our area, but this was a part of the “toughening-up” procedures used to accustom infantry to living and surviving under “combat conditions.”

Come morning or “first light” as they called it, grumbling “troops” awoke to the chores of packing up overnight shelters and heading for the breakfast “chow-line,” mess kits in hand.  (They were aluminum, not subject to rust and consisted of a folding “plate,” a knife, fork and spoon and a cup for fluids.)  Their clanking could be heard all along the line, where army coffee(brewed in a stell “garbage can” with grounds at the bottom, heated by a gas grille below), and insufferably weak!