Tony Soprano on Going to War. My cuz, Jack, managed to get Tony on the phone to get his thoughts on whether we should go to war with Iraq. Maybe we ought to just send a couple carloads of Jersey Wise Guys over there to kick Saddam’s ass.

Fort Dix, January 1969 – It started with a scratchy throat, and within 36 hours, I was having difficult time breathing; I could barely stand for more than 10 minutes, and I had a fever and chills. It was time to throw caution to the wind and go on sick call.

Every morning (and I mean pre-sunrise) at formation, the First Sgt. would announce “SICK CALL.” If you wished to see a medic or a doctor, you were to fall out to be taken to a special barracks that was set up to screen those who reported for sick call.

The Army had a tiered system for seeing that only sick people went on sick call. It started with the First Sergeant. After announcing sick call, he always made it very clear that feigning illness to avoid training would not be tolerated. “You report for sick call, you better gott-damn well be sick. Don’t LET me hear from the medic that there’s nothing wrong with you. I hear that shit and I guaran-gott-damn-tee you that when I’m done with you, you WILL need a doctor.”

So, if you felt sick enough to risk being accused of malingering and suffering the wrath of the Sergeant, you were taken to the next stage, where you got an opportunity to see a medic (an enlisted specialist – not a doctor), who would take your temperature and note your symptoms. For most of the guys, sick call ended there. The medic would dispense aspirins (“a couple whites”) and send you back to duty. If, on the other hand, the medic determined that you really might be sick, you would get to see a doctor.

Because my eyes were glassy, my breathing sounded like Darth Vader’s, and I had a 101 temperature, I got to see a doc. After the doctor examined me and pronounced me sick, I was taken to Walson Army Hospital, where I was to become a patient in the URI (upper respiratory infection) Ward.

By the time I finally got to the ward, I could barely stand up. The medic in charge of the ward ordered me to get into bed and not to get out except to use the latrine (bathroom). I could have hugged him. I thought, a real bed – not a bunk, real sheets, a nightstand, and even cotton pajamas? Hell, maybe I wasn’t sick, after all. Maybe I died and this was heaven.

My euphoria (no doubt partially fever-induced) was short-lived, because I soon learned that, in the Army, you even had to be sick by the numbers. The Army knew how to get you better in days, because, after all, patient compliance is not an issue. It went something like this:

“You WILL stay in bed, unless you have to use the latrine.”

“You WILL gargle with warm salt water every three hours for five minutes.”

“You WILL have your temperature taken every hour.”

“You WILL drink a quart of fluid [which tasted like vitamin fortified Kool-Aid] every two hours.”

“If your temperature rises to 101, you WILL be given an aspirin, and you WILL drink an quart of fluid, while the medic watches.”

“If your temperature rises to 102, you WILL be given two aspirins, and you WILL drink another quart of fluid, while the medic watches.”

“If your temperature rises to 103, you WILL be ‘packed’ in ice.”

I believe that I must have slept for almost 18 hours (except for the temperature, fluid drinking, and peeing interruptions).

Then my temperature hit 102. I thought, Oh Christ, one degree away from the ICE.

I was uncontrollably shivering from the fever. I don’t believe I ever felt so cold. The poor guy’s temperature in the next bed hit 103, and, as promised, the medics put ice packs under his neck, under his arms, on his abdomen and on his groin (my God!). I recall, at that moment, thinking, J-J-J-Jeeesus. If my temperature goes up to 103, I hope it immediately shoots right through 103 and soars to 105 and I friggin’ die. Dying has to be easier than having ice put all over you while you’re this cold.

Mercifully, I never hit the magic number. Maybe that’s because I drank (and peed) the gallons of mandatory mystery fluids, and gargled my ass off. When I wasn’t peeing or gargling, I stayed in bed. I would have done anything to avoid the ice.

The Army also capitalized on the importance of motivating you to want to recover quickly. This was done by telling you that if you were in the hospital longer than a certain time (I think a week), you would be RECYCLED. “Recycled” meant that you might well start basic training all over again, with a new unit. Believe me, the prospect of starting all over again was one helluva motivator.

So, in about four days, the Army’s cure by the numbers worked its magic. Once again, I found myself back in the ranks, humping a pack and rifle the 12 miles to the rifle range in single digit temperatures and then lying on the frozen ground while the march-induced sweat froze.

It was still better than being recycled.

Just got in about an hour ago. I’m too tired to write, but I see that Bill Mauldin, the Great WWII cartoonist, died. His cartoons of Willie and Joe captured the essense of being a soldier. Even though his Willie and Joe characters are WWII soldiers, I think that all soldiers since that time can relate. May he rest in peace.

Why, why, why do I persist in reading Maureen Dowd’s column when all it does is aggravate the hell out of me? It is not unlike picking at a painful scab..

Protests. Much has been written about the protests that took place this past weekend. Instapundit did a wonderful job of bringing it all together, but I cannot resist sharing a thought or two.

First, I am saddened to see that any American would liken the President of the United States to Adolph Hitler. There have been a few presidents I have not been fond of, the most recent being President Clinton. He is a man I would not invite to my home, but I would never, ever think of comparing him to Adolph Hitler. I would urge those who are quick to compare any President of the U.S. to Adolph Hitler to put the protest sign down long enough to do a bit of reading about Herr Hitler.

Second, if one insists on finding a 21st century parallel to Adolph Hitler, one needs look no further than Saddam Hussein.

After World War I, a defeated Germany signed a peace treaty that banned Germany’s production of virtually all armaments (armaments were the 1930’s equivalent of “weapons of mass destruction”). Only a bit more than a decade later, Mr. Hitler, an Austrian born, itinerant postcard painter, and political thug, took control of Germany.

The thug proceeded to brazenly violate the terms of the treaty that ended World War I by manufacturing tanks, ships, planes, and guns. He made his intentions with respect to his weapons quite clear. He even stated them in a book he authored while in prison.

Herr Hitler built up his arsenal over the next six years, while the world community, desperately wanting peace, appeased him time and time again. Laughing at his appeasers, in 1939, Hitler used his newly manufactured arsenal to launch a Blitzkrieg against Poland. And the rest, as they say, is history.

As for Iraq, after having been defeated in the Gulf War a decade or so ago, Saddam signed a treaty that forbade the development of weapons of mass destruction. There is no doubt that, between then and now, he has violated that agreement by fostering a program for the development of such weapons, the United Nations’ cat and mouse game, twice played, notwithstanding. His intentions with respect to such weapons are beyond conjecture, as he has actually used them in the past. Furthermore, his intentions with respect to the United States are just as clear. He hates this country and its leaders. He went so far as to attempt to have a former President of the U.S. assassinated.

If history teaches us anything, it is that, as much as we fervently wish for peace, sometimes appeasement of a thug is not the answer.

Even though the “vertical butt stroke” may sound like a groping technique or even a primer on personal hygiene, it is neither. It is one of a series of whacks, slashes and thrusts, collectively known as the “vertical butt stroke series.” Such was bayonet training in 1968 – 1969 in Army basic training at Fort Dix.

At this point in our training, we had spent a good deal of time on the rifle range learning how to shoot bad guys at long range. Now it was time to learn how to kill bad guys up close and personal. We were marched out to the bayonet training course, where the training was to be conducted by Sergeant Manzero (not his real name), who was the drill sergeant for one of the other platoons in the company. He was about 5 feet 9 inches tall, with a wiry, athletic build, and obligatory crew cut. He had recently completed his tour in Vietnam, and he was not to be trifled with.

I knew we were in for an interesting day when Sgt. Manzero began the training by announcing, “I am the best gott-damned bayonet fighter in the entire Unites States Army.” I cannot imagine that he thought that anyone would take issue with what I viewed as his dubious claim to fame; I certainly did not.

We learned the mandatory response to the question, which would be asked (yelled) by Sgt. Manzero on that day and by other sergeants thereafter. The question was, “What is the spirit of the bayonet?” The proper response was for everyone to shout in unison, “TO KILL, TO KILL WITHOUT MERCY, KILL, KILL KILL.!!!” The idea here, of course, was to whip one into an angry frenzy, because if it ever became necessary to actually engage in a bayonet fight, there was no substitute for killing the other guy. Sgt. Manzero also made it clear that there were two types of bayonet fighters — “the quick and the dead.” I don’t know how the other guys felt about all this, but it sure scared hell out of me.

So, we learned to “fix bayonets,” to “parry” and “thrust.” We then learned the horizontal and vertical butt stroke series. By way of example, here is how the vertical butt stroke series works – by the numbers:

1. You run up to the bad guy while screaming your ass off (presumably so the bad guy will think you are nuts) and carrying your rifle with, “fixed bayonet,” in front of you at a forty-five degree angle (the “on guard” position).

2. When you reach the bad guy, you swing your right foot towards him while simultaneously thrusting the butt of the rifle upward into the bottom of his chin (the goal being to knock his head off).

3. With the rifle now shoulder high (and if the bad guy is still standing), you cross your left leg in front of your right leg while thrusting the butt of the rifle horizontally and forward aiming at the bad guy’s face (this should definitely knock the bad guy down).

4. You now bring your right forward while slashing the bad guy with the bayonet aiming to cut a line from the right side of his throat to his left groin (by now, the bad guy had better be on his back).

5. You now bring your left leg forward while simultaneously thrusting the bayonet into the bad guy’s chest.

The above was repeated and repeated and repeated on dummies until we could do it in one seamless motion. Between repetitions, we would answer the “Spirit of the Bayonet” question. To me, the thought of finding myself in a situation of actually having to use the vertical butt stroke series on a bad guy, who also had a bayonet on his rifle was enough to loosen my bowels.

Even Sgt. Manzero conceded that bayonet fighting was a measure of last resort because it meant that you were out of ammunition and in “deep shit.” He reminded us of another harsh reality (as if I needed yet another one). “If the other guy has a bullet in the chamber of his rifle, you will probably lose the bayonet fight.”

The idea of shooting at bad guys at some distance (and having them shoot back) was terrifying enough, thank you. But the thought of a bayonet fight to the death kept me awake that night, despite the customary basic training exhaustion. Even knowing that I had been trained by the best gott-damned bayonet fighter in United States Army didn’t help much.

I was very sorry to see that Spoons has decided to take down his Blog. His reason is that keeping up with the Blog has been taking his time away from other more important things. I think many of us can relate. I will, however, miss reading his “The Spoons Experience.” It was one of my everyday reads. I hope he decides to cut back a bit rather than give it up all together.

It’s the acronym for being “absent without leave,” a subject that was stressed right from the start at Fort Dix, where in December 1968, thousands of draftees were being trained to be soldiers. On our first night in the Army, we learned what A.W.O.L. meant, and we were warned of its dire consequences. Anyone who is not “present or accounted for” is classified as A.W.O.L. So, if in the morning you are not “present or accounted for” you are technically A.W.O.L. Sleep late and no one knows where you are; you are A.W.O.L.

However, in 1968, the Army wasn’t terribly worried about late sleepers (although heaven help you if you did). Rather, the Army was concerned about maintaining control over thousands of draftees, who, by definition, did not choose to be there. The Army could ill-afford (and probably could not have effectively dealt with) having large numbers of draftees simply running away. To be sure, the Army did what it reasonably could do to make running away somewhat difficult. For example, someone was always awake patrolling the barracks as “fire watch” and, when outside, we were always in a formation being watched by the sergeants. Nevertheless, if one were determined to run away, it would have been relatively simple, particularly if one had a civilian accomplice. The accomplice could simply drive onto the base (Fort Dix was an open base back then), pick up the recruit, and drive him to “freedom.”

To deal with this relative lack of physical security, the Army constantly reminded us that going A.W.O.L. was futile because the military police (MPs) would track you down and bring you back. When you were returned, the consequences were directly proportional to the amount of time you had been A.W.O.L. In the worst case, being A.W.O.L. for more than thirty days got you classified as a “deserter.” We were told (and I believe accurately so) that deserters would end up in Leavenworth federal prison, serving the sentence for desertion in addition to the mandatory two-year hitch Army hitch. It was a grim picture, to say the least.

It wasn’t only the sergeants who preached about the evils of going A.W.O.L. On about the second or third night, the company attended a “Chaplain’s Orientation.” Even those of us who were not particularly religious were hoping that the Chaplain (presumably a non-Army, Army guy) would offer some measure of spiritual support, or possibly even some practical tips to cope with the craziness that had become our world.

The Chaplain began the orientation by saying in his soothing Chaplain’s voice, “Fellows, I know that many of you are confused (I was); many of you are anxious (I was), even frightened about what will happen to you (I was); many of you are homesick and do not want to be here (I was, and I didn’t), and maybe even some of you are depressed (I was that too). Well, fellows, I have some advice for you.”

I waited for some pearl of wisdom that would help me to effectively deal with my confusion, anxiety, fear, homesickness, and depression.

Here was the pearl of wisdom. The Chaplain stated, “Fellows, I know it’s hard, but don’t go A.W.O.L.” He then reiterated the same “you’ll get caught and really screwed” mantra we had heard from the sergeants. Inexplicably, he then told us to “be careful where you dip your wicks. You can catch some really nasty diseases.” I thought, “Don’t go A.W.O.L.? Be careful where you dip you wick? Yeah, there will surely be lots of wick dipping in Fort Dix. What planet is this guy from?” So much for spiritual guidance.

About three weeks later, we had about an hour of down time (which means you spent it spit shining boots and cleaning the barracks) before we were scheduled for another formation to march off to do one thing or another. All of a sudden, the sergeant burst into the barracks shouting, “I want a gott-damned formation in exactly five minutes! Move it. Move it. Gott-dammit. MOVE IT!!!”

We scrambled outside and saw that not just our platoon, but the entire company was forming up. The sergeants, who normally would be swaggering about, looked decidedly nervous. We knew that something was up. Then the Company Commander, a Captain, appeared, something that rarely ever happened. He looked angry, and he also looked nervous.

The Captain said, “I assume that many of you know Private Sanchez (not his real name). Well, I have some bad news about Private Sanchez.”

No one spoke. We waited for the bad news.

The Captain continued, “Gentlemen, Private Sanchez has just ENTERED THE WORLD OF SHIT. It seems that Private Sanchez has decided to go A.W.O.L.”

I immediately knew whom the Captain was referring to. Sanchez was the short, thin Puerto Rican guy who was in one of the other two platoons. He was a scrappy, tough, street guy. He was an excellent boxer who even had fought several professional flyweight bouts before being drafted. I specifically remembered him saying on a couple occasions, “I can’t take this shit, man. I gotta get the f*** outta here.” No one took him seriously. I certainly didn’t.

We again got the standard A.W.O.L. lecture, only this time it came directly from the Captain, and it was no longer theoretical. He told us, “The MP’s are looking for Sanchez now. And, gentlemen, he will be found, and, for his own good, he had better hope he is found in the next few days. But, in any event, gentlemen, you will not be seeing Private Sanchez again.” That meant to me that Sanchez would be spending time in the stockade (which I was told was one cut above a Turkish prison), or he would take basic training in Fort Reilly, Kansas at gunpoint, or he would wind up doing several years in federal prison. It was clear to me that this was not Army bluster; this was serious stuff.

My first, and extremely short-lived, reaction was one of admiration for Sanchez for having managed to rattle the sergeants and even the Captain, who doubtless would have to explain himself to the higher-ups in the chain of command. Surprisingly, however, that reaction was replaced with one of feeling sorry that Sanchez had done something that would screw up his life, and feeling that perhaps Sanchez wasn’t so tough after all. Hell, if I could “take this shit.” why couldn’t Sanchez?

Now that I look back on it, the Army may have failed with Sanchez, but it succeeded with me and others like me. Without even noticing our transformation, we were actually beginning to believe that perhaps we were tougher than we ever thought we could be.

Well, waddya know.

Being new at sending my words and thoughts into cyberspace, I am gratified when I see that some people actually read the meanderings of a middle-aged Jersey Guy. I’m even more gratified when people actually like them enough to link to the site. In that regard, I noticed that I was getting referrals from Diminished Responsibility. Naturally, I checked out the site, and I found it to be well written, very well organized and full of extremely varied content – something for everyone. I’m making it one of my daily reads, and I recommend you do so as well.

Here are some great photos of the recovery of the USS Cole following its attack by Islamic Terrorists in Yemen on October 12, 2000. The attack resulted in 17 sailors being killed and 39 being wounded. The Cole, a guided missile destroyer, was recovered by the Norwegian heavy transport ship M/V Blue Marlin. Following extensive repairs, which included replacing 550 tons of exterior steel plating, the Cole, returned to the Fleet in April 2002.

Thanks to my friend Brian for sending me the photos.

It was January 1969, during the final weeks of Army basic training at Fort Dix. We stood shivering on that frigid, moonless night, waiting for our turn to “go over the top” to begin the Night Infiltration Course.

The purpose of the Night Infiltration Course was to give us some sense of how it feels to low crawl (i.e. keeping one’s chest and belt buckle in touch with ground at all times) towards an objective, as real bullets zing overhead and explosive charges go off nearby to simulate incoming mortar or artillery rounds. Essentially, the course consisted of an area that seemed to me to be about three quarters the size of size of a football field. However, that is a guess, as it was too dark to see the finish line from where we were.

The beginning of the course consisted of a chest-deep trench, where groups of about ten waited until instructed to go “over the top.” At that point, the group would climb out of the trench and begin the crawl to the other end of the course.

As I was waiting for my group’s turn, I watched several groups before ours begin the course. The machine gun fire from behind and above was virtually non-stop, which suggested to me that there must have been at least two guns. One gun would fire while the other was being re-loaded. We had been “assured” by the Sergeants that the guns were locked into a position that prevented them from being fired any lower than about seven feet from the ground. Even though I was quite certain that we would not be machine gunned to death in Fort Dix, I still was not at all eager to crawl on the freezing ground under live machine gun fire. I really need this shit?

I watched as the guys in the group before mine crawled out of the trench and disappeared into the darkness, while the tracers (there are about a half-dozen bullets between each tracer) produced fiery streaks of orange-red light in the night over their heads. I was trying to determine whether the bullets were really as high off the ground as promised, but I could not tell. I could also hear the explosive charges going off in the darkness ahead, which lit up the immediate area around the charge, showing brief flashes of the men on the ground in silhouette.

The Sergeant told us to get ready.

I leaned my rifle against the wall of the trench and nervously checked my helmet and web belt (on which was my bayonet and entrenching tool) to make sure everything was secure. As I had done a couple thousand times over the prior six weeks, I wondered what the hell am I doing here?

It also wasn’t the first time I considered how incomprehensible it seemed that strategic decisions that had been made years before, at the highest level of government – indeed, in the Oval Office itself – could set off a chain reaction of events that eventually placed me in this damned trench, waiting my turn to crawl to God-knows where, while other guys fired machine guns over my head. What the hell am I doing here?

“OVER THE TOP,” the Sergeant hollered.

I dutifully climbed out of the trench and began the long crawl. Almost immediately, my helmet slid forward, almost falling off. Each time my helmet slipped forward, it knocked my glasses (army glasses) halfway down my nose. Just keep crawling forward, I told myself, and ignore the machine gun fire overhead. (Talk about a supreme exercise in self-delusion.) I continued crawling, all the while pushing my helmet back on my head, and pushing my glasses back onto my nose.

All of a sudden, KAAH-BOOM!!!!! One of the charges exploded about ten feet from me (the charges were surrounded by chicken wire to prevent someone from actually crawling over them), and I felt something hit me in the leg. I thought, Holy shit! Could I have been hit?? Jesus, nobody gets WOUNDED in FORT DIX!! After a brief moment of panic, I realized that what had hit my leg was just some dirt that the explosive charge had thrown off. I was happy not to be hurt, but even happier not having to explain to everyone how I managed to get wounded on the Night Infiltration Course, something for which one surely does not receive the Purple Heart.

I continued to crawl, dragging my rifle along, as instructed, so as to keep the firing mechanism free of dirt. My helmet and glasses continued to slip. I lost my sense of time and place. I just crawled and crawled. I was exhausted.

I must have looked like the pathetic turtle in the movie Mondo Kane. In nature, after emerging from the sea to lay their eggs inland, turtles instinctively crawl in the direction of the ocean to return to the sea. However, as shown in Mondo Kane, atomic testing near the turtles’ habitat had altered the genes of some of the turtles. The film focused on one turtle, which, after having laid its eggs, crawled in the direction away from the ocean. It continued to crawl in the wrong direction, a slave to its genetically altered instincts, until it could no longer propel its weight forward. It futilely pushed its flippers against the sand until it ultimately died of exhaustion. Yep. That’s me. The Mondo Friggin’ Kane Turtle.

I did not know how long I had been crawling, but I finally reached the trench at the end of the course. I was sweating and freezing all at the same time. I was covered with dirt and mud from head to toe, and my rifle was absolutely filthy. Even the rifle barrel was full of dirt, which would certainly have prevented it from being fired. The Sergeant saw the mud-caked rifle, took it in his hand, and got right in my face.

“What the f*** is wrong with you? Look at this gott-damned weapon. You got about a pound of dirt in the gott-damned barrel. You try to fire this weapon, and you’ll blow your f****** head clean off!”

He was right, but I really wasn’t paying attention to his hollering. I was too busy thinking about that turtle.