The orders which had sent them to Fort Rucker four months before further stated, specifically, that incoming students would report not earlier than 2000 hours and not later than 2200 hours, in Class “A” uniform, and that civilian clothing and other personal equipment would be turned in for storage to the quartermaster before they left their camp, post, or station to report the Fort.
Sergeant Franklin had found a garage in Daleville, outside the gate, where he could leave his car and his civvies. He had taken a cab to the post, and had more or less expected to see what happened: starting at 2005 hours, a line of civilian automobiles owned by married noncoms appeared at the WOC area. Senior enlisted men, carrying for the first time in a long time a standard GI duffel bag, got out of the cars, perfunctorily kissed their wives, and marched up the sidewalk to the orderly room.
There they were greeted by cadre, corporals, and buck sergeants. They knew the routine. There was a roster. Their names were checked off. They signed in. They were given room assignments and informed that they were restricted to the company area.
They, like Franklin, were pleased with what they initially found. For one thing, they had BOQs. Regular goddamned officer’s BOQs, a sitting room study with a desk and even a desk lamp. A bedroom with a real bed, not even a GI bed, a real bed, with a real mattress. There was a shower and a crapper, shared with the guy next door. It wasn’t quite the accommodations Sergeant Franklin had had in the Hotel d’Angleterre in Algiers, but it was far more spacious and comfortable than he expected.
The guys next door were a surprise. Goddamned buck ass private recruits, fresh from Dix or Bragg or another basic training post, still showing the signs of the thirty-second haircut they’d got on their first day in the army. Bright kids, starry-eyed and bushy-tailed, but goddamned rookies. What the fuck they were doing here was something that would have to be figured out.
At 0600 the next morning, a somewhat scratchy phonograph recording of reveille was played over the public address system. This was almost immediately followed by the announcement, repeated twice, that the uniform of the day was Class “A” with ribbons and qualification badges. Breakfast would be served at the WOC mess. WOCs would form at 0625 hours in front of the barracks. They were told to determine among themselves who was the senior noncommissioned officer, and he would form the company. A member of the cadre would serve as guide for the march to the WOC mess.
Five master sergeants ambled outside at 0620. They were wearing immaculate uniforms and all their ribbons. They crisply saluted a five-foot-three-inch second lieutenant who was standing outside, and cheerfully barked, “Good morning, sir!” to him.
He returned their salute, gave them a half-smile, and stood watching with his arms folded.
They compared dates of rank, and it was determined that First Sergeant Kenneth G. Spencer, until three days before top kick of Dog Company, 508th Parachute Infantry, 82nd Airborne Division, was the ranking noncommissioned officer.
“What we’ll do is have each of you take a platoon,” First Sergeant Spencer said. “And you,” he added to the fourth master sergeant, “will be the guide.”
While it had been some time since some of the master sergeants had marched anywhere, they knew what the hell they were doing. When the rest of the incoming class came out before the barracks, they quickly formed them into three platoons, each headed by a master sergeant. The second john (who looked as if he had gotten out of the Point last week) gestured to the cadre corporal to present the roster to First Sergeant Spencer.
Roll was called.
First Sergeant Spencer performed an impeccable about-face, snapped his right hand to his right eyebrow in an impeccable demonstration of the hand salute, and barked: “Sir, all present and accounted for.”
The shavetail returned the salute.
“Very good. March the men to the mess, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir!” First Sergeant Spencer said. He did another impeccable about-face.
The mess was a pleasant surprise too. Most school mess halls were pretty goddamned bad. This wasn’t. There were four-man tables, each with pitchers of milk, condiments, table clothes, even napkins and flowers. More like an officer’s mess than an EM mess hall. And the chow wasn’t at all bad. Eggs any way you liked them, biscuits. First class.
Nobody had said anything about marching back to the company area, but First Sergeant Spencer had apparently decided it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe and do things by the book, for when Franklin came out of the mess hall, Spencer was already there to form the troops again. When they were all assembled, he marched them back to the company area. Shiny Balls the Second John was waiting there for them. First Sergeant Spencer had guessed right. He had been expected to march the men back from the mess.
He formed the company into platoons, did an about-face, and saluted.
“Sir, the company is formed,” he barked.
“Prepare the company for inspection in ranks, Sergeant,” Shiny Balls the Second John said.
First Sergeant Spencer saluted, about-faced, stood at rigid attention and barked:
“Open ranks, MARCH!”
The first rank took two large steps forward; the second rank took one large step forward. The third rank did not move.
“Dress right, dress. Ready. FRONT!”
First Sergeant Spencer followed Shiny Balls the Second John up and down the ranks. Shiny Balls stopped in front of each man, examined him from tip of cap to tip of shoes. Shiny Balls, thought Staff Sergeant William B. Franklin, really ate that inspecting-officer shit up.
Finally, it was over.
Shiny Balls stood in front of the company.
He reached inside his tunic and took from it something that First Sergeant Spencer had never seen before. It was Shiny Balls’s collection of ribbons and qualification badges. Shiny Balls, Sergeant Franklin saw, wasn’t quite the fresh-from-the-Point shitass he had appeared to be. Shiny Balls had his own collection of qualification badges. There was a CIB, and below the CIB a set of aviator’s wings, and then, below a double line of four-abreast ribbons, a set of jump wings. There was a Silver Star and Purple Heart with a cluster among the ribbons. Franklin was surprised to see the patch of ribbons and insignia on Shiny Balls. The only other officer he’d ever seen with a set like that, which could be put on or taken off with such ease, was Major Craig W. Lowell; and Lowell had class.
“Gentlemen,” Shiny Balls said, “my name is Oppenheimer, and I am your tactical officer. Now, ten percent of you, those who have joined us directly from basic training, will probably accept this without question. The other ninety percent of you, the noncommissioned officers, the backbone of the army, are doubtless at this moment entertaining certain questions.
“It is practically an item of faith within the noncommissioned officer corps that second lieutenants have a value on a par with a rubber crutch for a cripple, or lactation glands on a male camel.
“I believed this myself, gentlemen, when, before I was afforded the opportunity of an education at the United States Military Academy at West Point, I served as a platoon sergeant with the 140th Tank Battalion.
“Ninety percent of the commissioned officers with whom you will be associated during your stay with us, as well, of course, as one hundred percent of the warrant officers, have had service as noncommissioned officers.
“I would therefore like to make the friendly suggestion that any thoughts that any of you have regarding beating the system because of your vast and varied experience as soldiers in sundry assignments around the planet Earth should be dismissed as wishful thinking.
“We are going to teach you two things while you are here. We are going to teach you how to fly rotary wing aircraft. Since you are all in excellent physical condition and possess a degree of intelligence at least as high as that of officer candidates, and since flying, frankly, is not all that difficult, that phase of your training should pose no problem.
“We are also going to make a valiant effort to turn you into officers a
nd gentlemen. An officer is someone charged with the responsibility for other men’s lives; there is no greater responsibility placed on any human being. A gentleman is someone who has earned the respect of his peers and subordinates by his personal character. His word is his bond. He accepts and executes orders without any mental reservations whatever.
“There is no bed check here, gentlemen. There will be no guards posted to keep you from walking out the gate and spending the night with your wives in the Daleville Motel—or wherever else you have stashed them. When you are ordered to be in your quarters, you are expected to be in your quarters. Your very presence here means that you have given your word to faithfully execute all orders.
“You will not be punished, in other words, for going AWOL. You will be dismissed from the program as being unfit to be an officer and a gentleman because your word cannot be trusted.
“Neither do we function here on the buddy system. You will cover for your friends at your own risk. A gentleman is not a snitch who will run to his superiors to report the misbehavior of his peers. On the other hand, to give you a specific example, should it come to our attention that someone missed a formation, that someone failed to appear at the appointed time, at the appointed place, in the proper uniform, and that whoever was in charge of the formation covered for him, the result would be immediate dismissal for both individuals.
“That’s all the explanation of how things operate that you’re going to get, with this final exception. You will be marched from here to the quartermaster warehouse, where you will receive a complete issue of uniforms, from T-shirts and shorts to flight suits. Those uniforms will be adorned with the insignia prescribed for the various grades of warrant officer candidates, and with no, repeat no, other insignia of any kind. It will be impossible to tell, for example, a former first sergeant of a parachute infantry company from a former recruit E-1. And that, gentlemen, is the point.
“From the moment you put on those new uniforms until you graduate, or are dismissed, you can forget that you are a noncommissioned officer whom a grateful government has seen fit to equip with authority, and the symbols of that authority, as well as the symbols for whatever unusual contribution you may have made to the profession of arms in the past.
“You are all equal. What you are now, gentlemen, is WOCs. And what a WOC is, is something one fwows at a wabbit.”
It was not, Staff Sergeant Franklin had decided, your typical bullshit welcoming speech.
(Two)
By 21 November 1958, when Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV marched into Dog Company WOC Battalion, Shiny Balls Oppenheimer, having completed eighteen months of satisfactory service, had received an automatic promotion to first lieutenant. His charges had gone through various stages of ground school, and phases I through IV of flight instruction. They would graduate just before Christmas, on completion of phase V (Light and Medium Transport Helicopter Operation Under Field Conditions).
Shiny Balls saw the Chevrolet staff car with the Collins VHF antenna mounted incongruously on its roof pull up before the company and correctly concluded that it was a messenger from On High; specifically, since only the post commander’s staff car was equipped with the Collins antenna and the radios to go with it, an officer from the post commander’s staff bearing amnesty for the WOC sinners.
He waited in his office for the little ballet to be carried out.
The WOC charge of quarters, at a little desk by the door, bellowed “Atten-hut” when the general’s messenger entered the building. A moment or two later, the command was repeated as the general’s messenger entered the orderly room.
“Sir,” the WOC officer of the day barked crisply, “WOC Stewart, J. B., officer of the day, sir.”
“Stand at ease,” the general’s messenger said. “Would you please offer my compliments to the tactical officer and inform him that I would have a word with him. My name is Parker.”
The WOC officer of the day (the position was rotated daily among the WOCs) knocked at Shiny Balls’s open door, was told to enter, entered, saluted, and said, “Sir, Captain Parker offers his compliments and requests to speak to the lieutenant, sir.”
“Ask the captain to come in,” Shiny Balls said, and prepared to stand up behind his desk.
“Sir,” the WOC officer of the day said, at rigid attention, “Captain Parker, sir.”
“Lieutenant Oppenheimer, K. B., sir,” Shiny Balls said, saluting.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Captain Parker said, returning the salute. He looked at the WOC officer of the day. “Be good enough to close the door when you leave,” he said. The door was closed.
“It is the general’s desire,” Captain Parker said, “that your sinners be pardoned for all sins.”
“Yes, sir,” Oppenheimer said. “I suspected that might be the purpose of the captain’s visit.”
“I wish the announcement of the general’s gracious gesture to be withheld from the troops until I have a word with one of them,” Parker said. “One who is, I understand, a genuine, no question whatever about it, wise-ass.”
“Who would that be, Captain?”
“Warrant Officer Candidate Franklin, William B.,” Parker said.
Shiny Balls looked uncomfortable.
“May I say something, Captain?”
“Certainly.”
“Now, I’m not trying to excuse what he did. It was wrong. I know it was wrong, and he knows it was wrong. But…”
“But?”
“He’s a good man, Captain. Solid. And it isn’t as if he had only 135 hours of flight instruction, if the captain gets my meaning.”
“Your loyalty is commendable, Lieutenant,” Captain Parker said, dryly. “And duly noted.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I send for him, sir?”
“Just tell me where I can find him,” Parker said. “I am going to have a word with him here, and then I am going to take him away from the company area for further counseling. You may make announcement of the general amnesty after we leave.”
“Yes, sir,” Shiny Balls Oppenheimer said. He turned to a chart on the wall and pointed out to Captain Parker the location of WOC Franklin’s WOCQ. (WOCQ stood for warrant officer candidate’s quarters. It was pronounced WockYou. It was far more often mispronounced.)
Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV rapped once with his knuckle on the doorframe of WOC Franklin’s WOCQ.
WOC Franklin, who had been sitting at his study desk, jumped to his feet.
“Sir, WOC Franklin, W. B., sir!” he barked.
“Stand at ease, Mr. Franklin,” Captain Parker said. Franklin assumed the position of “parade rest” rather than the somewhat less rigid “at ease.”
“My name is Parker,” Captain Parker said. “In addition to my other duties, I am the post equal opportunity and antidiscrimination officer.”
“Yes, sir,” Warrant Officer Franklin said.
“It has come to my attention that you have been charged with, and are being punished for, a rather serious violation of flight safety rules.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The army generally and the commanding general specifically are determined that there be absolutely no discrimination based on race, creed, religion, or country of origin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am here, Mr. Franklin, to determine whether you are guilty as charged or whether this is an incident where you are being discriminated against because of the pigmentation of your skin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“Sir, I am guilty as charged. It had nothing to do with me being colored.”
“‘Colored’?” Captain Parker asked, in an incredulous tone. “I was under the impression that the descriptions now in vogue to describe those of the Negro race were ‘black’ and ‘Afro-American.’ I haven’t heard the term ‘colored’ used in some time.”
Franklin, visibly uncomfortable, took a moment before replying.
“Sir,” he said, “it had nothing to do with m
y race.”
“As I just informed you, Mr. Franklin,” Parker said, “I am the post equal opportunity and antidiscrimination officer. It is my function, not yours, to determine whether or not the charges that you ‘recklessly endangered an aircraft’ are based on fact, or are one more manifestation of racial prejudice against those whom you quaintly chose to refer to as ‘colored.’”
“Yes, sir,” WOC Franklin said.
“To that end, Mr. Franklin, I am about to subject you to an unscheduled check ride.”
“Yes, sir,” Franklin said, visibly surprised.
“Get your helmet and your flight suit, Mr. Franklin,” Captain Parker said. “I will wait for you in a sedan parked in front of this building.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
WOC Franklin jerked open his locker and took out his gray flight coveralls and his helmet. He debated for a moment whether to put the flight suit on now, or wait until they got where they were going. He decided it would be best not to keep this Captain Parker waiting. He folded his flight suit over his arm, put the helmet on his head, and ran down the corridor toward the stairs.
Parker was sitting in the back of a Chevrolet sedan. Franklin saw the Collins antenna on the roof, and thought: Jesus Christ, this is the general’s staff car!
He got in the front seat beside the driver.
“You know where we’re going,” Captain Parker said to the driver. The driver was a sergeant first class. Sergeants first class normally do not drive staff cars, unless they happen to be the general’s personal driver.
What the fuck is going on? thought Franklin.
“Yes, sir,” the general’s driver said.
He drove them to post headquarters.
The general’s white-painted H-13H sat on the helipad before post headquarters. The general’s staff car pulled into the reserved parking place, and the driver jumped out to open the door for Captain Parker.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Captain Parker said. He beckoned with his finger to WOC Franklin to follow him and walked across the road to the general’s H-13H.
The Majors Page 31
