by David Thibodeau
More than sixty years ago I was in a 17-week basic training program at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
I was learning to be a cannoneer in Field Artillery. Saturday inspections were rigorous and unforgiving, and every man lived in fear as the lieutenant and our platoon sergeant made the rounds. The first Saturday I had a box of cookies, still sealed up, lined up in my foot locker with a fine regard for symmetry and perfect alignment. Lt. Mohler glared at the cookies and at me, and snapped, "Take his name." I was "gigged" just about the worst thing that can happen in basic. I had to report to the Battery Commander, a Capt. Krummie from Green Bay. He said, "Do you know why we don't want cookies in the foot lockers, soldier?" I said, "Yes, sir, cockroaches, sir." He said, "That's right, and I don't want you back in here."
The next Friday we went on an overnight bivouac, and ate from our messkits Saturday morning. Lt. Mohler spotted some soap on my messkit, and again it was, "Take his name." This time pure disgust was on the face of Capt. Krummie. I was the scum of the earth, and even my barracks mates started to look at me as if I had leprosy.
All this time I had no rifle, as there was a shortage, and as my name was toward the end of the alphabet, I didn't get one. They were actually called "US Carbine Caliber 30 M-1." I watched the other guys endlessly polishing and cleaning them, and I thought I could handle it. By the third week I had my own carbine.
CARBINE M1 .30 Cal.
Came Saturday inspection, and just before Mohler got there I ran an oily patch through the barrel. Mohler grabbed it, sighted down the tube, and barked the fateful words, "Dirty rifle. Take his name."
I got the whole weekend of KP for my great sin. I knew I was scum of the earth and the lowest of the low.
The next Saturday, the bore of my carbine was smooth as glass, and I saw a look almost of compassion flash across Lt. Mohler's face as he snapped it back to me. I failed no more inspections..
The last week of basic we went on a 3-day field problem, digging in our 105 mm howitzers several times. The Captain then staged a kind of outdoor classroom, and the always-present little group of fawning sycophants, ever close to the officers and nonecoms, was at the ready.
Krummie then sprang his little zinger on us that he probably used on every cycle of trainees. "How many horizontal cross hairs does the gunner's sight have on a 105 howitzer?" he asked. One by one the eager ones called out "three," "Wrong." "Four." "Wrong again." "Five," one asked hopefully.
I knew by then what was going on. I raised my hand, and Krummie said, "Yes?"
"He doesn't have any, sir." "Why not?" said Krummie in a threatening voice. "He's only concerned with deflection, sir, not elevation," I answered. I had it right.
Beetle Bailey had come of age.
