Society

153-2

Barry Trutor

The day was grey. The departure from little Benson. "Just Over the Hill" the sign out by the main highway says. My mother was reserved. I don’t remember any visible tears on either side; I am sure they were there inside; she and I were both scared shitless. The drive in the IH pickup with my father garnered little conversation. Dad dropped me off at the Vermont Transit bus station in Rutland and with a handshake and a “Give it all you got, Pal”, I boarded the bus to Worcester, Massachusetts and the regional Coast Guard Induction Center.

It turned out there were a couple of other inductees on the bus. We had all been given a one-way bus ticket to Worcester with directions to the YMCA. I recall the YMCA being right down the street from the Worcester bus station. The Induction Center was directly across the street from the YMCA. Military precision at its finest. The YMCA building was dark, my room sparse and narrow. The cot was a sheet and a dark wool blanket. All very fitting for the condemned man, I thought. I muffled my tears with the pillow.

After a fitful night’s bedding, no sleep, in my first and only YMCA, about twenty of us assembled in the nearby Induction Center. I got my first look at the Coast Guard’s equivalent of a Sergeant Major. In the Coast Guard we have the Senior Chief Petty Officer, the Senior Chief. The Senior Chief presented in a black uniform, white shirt and a black tie with a gold insignia at the shoulder, gold stripes at the sleeve and an impressive array of ribbons.

His drawl was southern. Southerners, I figured out during my military career, were the squared-away troops, the troops in charge. They carried themselves at all times in a military manner. How they got whupped in the Civil War remains a mystery to me. The Senior Chief was very happy to see us. He said we had all made the right decision. We were all handed lengthy contracts to execute. Everyone signed them promptly and without reservation. We accepted the Senior Chief’s legal brief, the emphasis on brief, as in our best interests. We rose and he administered the Oath of Enlistment:

"I, (state your name), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

The Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) has existed since the Continental Congress established sixty-nine Articles of War to govern the conduct of the citizen-soldiers way back then. The UCMJ is a masterful body of laws which immediately upon execution of the Oath of Enlistment cancels the protections of the Bill of Rights and sets forth the soldier’s Bill of Wrongs. In addition to no raping, murdering, and pillaging, the military bans a bunch of other stuff like Malingering, Conduct Unbecoming an Officer and a Gentlemen, Fraternization, and Carrying Unclean Weapons, all horrible crimes punishable by 20 years in the brig, loss of rank and pay, and dishonorable discharge. The crown jewel of the UCMJ is Article 134. Termed the General Article, it includes all offenses that are not specifically listed in the Manual for Courts-Martial and which may “cause disorder and neglect to the prejudice of good order and discipline in the armed forces, or conduct of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces." Simply stated, if they can’t get you for anything else, they can get you for that. It’s the Catch 22. Several months after my enlistment, Second Lieutenant William Calley got intimately familiar with the UCMJ following his work at My Lai. Private Eddie Slovik became acquanted with it in World War II when all he wanted to do was stop shooting people. He became the first American soldier shot for desertion since the Civil War. In my own state of Vermont, our most notable Civil War soldier was the sleeping sentinel William Scott. He volunteered to do a sick comrades duty after he had already done his, but fell asleep on the job in Washington, D.C.

General McClellan sentenced Willy to a firing squad under the Articles of War to impress upon the men the seriousness of the offense. It took a personal visit from President Lincoln to dissuade the general from shooting Willy. Lincoln pardoned Willy, who immediately returned to duty. A year later, Willy was able to give his life for his country. He was mortally wounded while saving a drowning comrade in a frontal assault across the Warwick River. Little did I know that I would also have my fifteen minutes with the UCMJ.

At this point the Senior Chief’s deamenor changed ever so slightly, starting with a little joke about how “we got you now.” Within the hour, we were on a bus headed to Cape May, New Jersey via New York City. Twenty brave citizen-soldiers off to war, yakking at the top of our lungs, secretly hoping for a huge infusion of bravado from the activity. We left Worcester mid morning and were expected to arrive in Cape May before midnight. Need I say that this was the longest bus ride of my life. What had I done! I had thrown away a beautiful childhood in idyllic rural Vermont, heading into the unknown with no one to comfort me.

Cape May is on the southern tip of New Jersey where the Delaware Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean. Cape May calls itself “The Nation’s Oldest Seashore Resort.” Beginning in the late 18th century, Cape May drew large numbers of visitors from Philadelphia and New York City. As in any resort town, the locals are outnumbered by the tourists during the sunny seasons. In this case, 4,000 Mayans faced around 100,000 invaders. By 11 p.m. on April 1, 1969, a tour group of about 150 had arrived at the downtown bus station.

What occurred next was right out of a cheesy novel. The soda machines did a land office business with pop after pop being guzzled. The coin operated pool tables filled the air with the thwak of break shots. The cigarette machines dispensed nail after nail, all ending up half driven into the right side of the tourists’ mouths following the flips of their lighters. The men’s room door squawked and squawked. Positions changed continuously: sit down, stand up, walk over there, stand, walk back, sit down, stand up, shuffle your feet, lean on the wall. This ballet went on for an hour while we waited for whatever it was. All fell immediately silent when the side door disappeared and a tall, split rail, military character appeared in its place. It looked like the drill instructor we had seen in movies and when it barked, “Listen up!” we knew the jig was up.

“When I call your name, come forward and board the blue buses.”

“Rakowsky, Robert A.”

“Samson, John T.”

“Trutor, Barry J.”

Without being told to get a move on it, we each trotted through the side door, up the steps and into the first blue bus we saw, instinctively packing ourselves from rear to front in sardine order. There was no noise except for the bus motor running and the shuffle of feet. With the canning complete, the driver closed the door, ground into gear and we lurched off down the dimly lit street. Shortly thereafter a high wire fence on both sides of the road narrowed to a gate with a guardhouse manned by a white uniformed sailor with a pistol, night stick, the initials SP (Shore Patrol) on a black arm band, and a hat like Donald Duck’s. I didn’t laugh. SP Duck waved our bus through and we came to a halt.

All hell broke loose. We were met by several drill instructors yelling, “You have 30 seconds to exit the vehicle and you have wasted 15 seconds already!” We scrambled ass over tea kettle out into bright flood lights illuminating what we would come to know as the grinder. More drill instructors yelled us into our first formation, each individual command fitted to the particular body shape, hairdo, complexion, clothing style, and reaction time of the recruit. No matter what any of us did, it was wrong. Wrong was gimme 25 push-ups. Wrong was a new variation on the correcting command. Interspursed with this physical education, we were learning our first military talk. We were repeatedly instructed that whenever we opened our mouth, the first word was “Sir,” and the last word was “Sir.” This served as the basis for the two most common sentences used by us for the next nine weeks: “Sir, yes, sir!” and “Sir, no sir!” This formative stage lasted an hour. Viewed from a short distance, it must have looked like some strange 150 cylinder engine with each piston alternately at the top of its stroke, at the bottom or somewhere in between. When the formation was just right, we were addressed for the first time as a group by the dominant DI.

Com-pan-eeee!

Rye-eat..….Face!

Foe-ward….Harch!

Most having received previous training in close order drill from the Boy Scouts, their high school band, a Catholic school or a cartoon strip, the recruit company lurched forward, instantly transforming itself into a drunken millipede being attacked from all sides by wasps. Somehow this organism got to a building where it came to a halt. We were each rudely ushered into the “in” door where ten uniformed haberdashers met us with a wall of clothing. Haberdasher #1 tossed me a seabag. Habidasher #2 demanded my shoe size and slid a pair of black boots, a pair of black shoes, and a pair of white sneakers at me. Into the seabag they went. #3 demanded waist size which produced a pile of cotton shorts, t-shirts and socks. Apparently there was standard scale that converted waist size to t-shirts and socks. Stumbling for several long seconds on what my mother had told me was my shirt size, my blurted “Sir, 15 and a half collar and 33 sleeve, Sir!” was already filled by haberdasher #4 and awaiting delivery into my seabag by the end of my order. His carefully selected three chambray shirts, two tropical shirts, one blue jersey, one blue dress jumper, one blue undress jumper and one white dress jumper were shoved into my bag. The man really knew his business. Proceeding down the line in this whirlwind shopping trip, I gathered in belts, caps, hats, gloves, the sailor’s unique black neckerchief, the one tied in a square knot at the sailor’s breast, blue raincoat, and the much sought after peacoat then being seen on the hippies that were just starting to come to Vermont to farm. Haberdasher #8 and I did not speak. The big and little towels required no discussion. Page 194 of the Coast Guardsman’s Manual specifically states that the mimimum articles of uniform include 2 small towels and 2 large towels; at that point I hadn’t yet been trained to wear them. Dungaree trousers, white trousers, blue trousers completed the wardrobe with #10 foisting a form and I guess my signature indicated transfer of ownership. With a near 100 pound bag on a purse strap around my shoulder, I bumbled out into our second formation, now learning how to do push-ups so that your seabag doesn’t get dirty by touching the ground. This went on for an hour.

I remember two things mostly about those first few hours. I was drenched with this greasy sweat, sweat that was being released after years of Banquet TV dinners, Welch’s Fudge Bars and my mother’s macaroni and cheese. She used to save the old dried up cheese for several weeks and throw it and some bread husks on top of elbow macaroni in the oven. I loved the stuff. The other was the absolute terror I was feeling. It’s hard to describe. If you’ve been there you know what I am talking about. I am in the military. There is a war going on. People are getting killed. I am here because I failed at other things, I won’t be able to endure the physical challenge. It’s way worse than the first day of high school baseball. I can’t fail my parents again. My father was a soldier. I can’t dishonor him. I can’t cry. If I don’t succeed I will be shunned for the rest of my life. I can’t run away or they will put me in the brig. The government is in control of me. I am one of the ants. There is no hope. What will I do? This mind loop continued to run over and over even after they herded us into a sterile building with rows of double bunks and locked us up for the night.

5AM came immediately. We were roused by a blaring loudspeaker bugle. Nobody moved in their rack, nobody spoke, it was near pitch black. After about 10 minutes, the muted tramping and barking of men on the move came to our ears. We bolted to the windows and could make out the forms of many large formations, trotting into the grinder and coming to rest with a guidon bearer in front of each. The grinder was a huge grass and concrete expanse surrounded on three sides by two and three story sterile brick and concrete block buildings. The forth side faced out into the lightening horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. The formations began in unison to perform all sorts of gymnastics with a particular affection for push-ups. Each formation would also exhibit a solo performer or two or three or six during the performance, this performer to be circling the formation at a dead run, or doing push-ups when all others were doing jumping jacks, or doing squat thrusts while the others were at parade rest.

Of particular interest was a formation of seven recruits who were off to the side of the other formations. To a man every recruit in the large formations had a white dixie cup on his head, a light blue chambray shirt, a white t-shirt revealed at the neck, a dark blue short jacket ¾ buttoned-up, dark blue dungarees with bell bottoms and black boots. This small formation wore a variation on the theme. Their bell bottoms were tucked down in their boots. Their jackets were buttoned up to the neck with the coat lapels pulled up around the neck. And most striking was the dixie cup pulled down over their ears like a Gloucester fisherman’s high weather hood, spray painted bright red. These were the Red Hats. They seemed to be doing more of everything without any short rests in between. Their DI also seemed, although we couldn’t hear a word, to deliver invectives, admonitions and threatening body language a magnitutde above that which we were seeing and had received the previous evening. It was a foreboding image indeed.

At some point, our lights were switched on and a DI came in and yelled get dressed and be on the grinder in 5 minutes. Get dressed like the regular formations which we did to the best of our ability. This incuded putting laces in the boots, assembling the two piece belt, both brass buckle and web strapping, for me slipping on boxers for the first time, tucking this whole mess of loose material into my pants and flying down the stairs and out into the waiting arms of the DI. We were too slow and we started an immediate regimen of push-ups, close order trotting, push-ups and so forth as we worked our way over to the mess hall. All the other formations were already chowing down when we were rushed through the chow line, seated and told to consume everything on our plates in 5 minutes. Out of the corner of our eyes we glimpsed the Red Hats who came in after us and who were kept running up and down in place as they went through the chow line and were seated by themselves. It didn’t take long for me to put two and two together and add being put into the Red Hats into my mind loop. I am in the army, there is a war going on, people are getting killed, they are gonna put me in the Red Hats.

We reversed our path to the barracks, playing out the same “get down, give me 25, get up” regimen and were again alone in our barracks. Nothing happened. We sat there till noon. We repeated the chow hall trip and returned. Nothing happened. We sat there till 5. Supper, the same and lights out at 20 hundred hours. Next morning, the breakfast trip and return to barracks. This morning however the final stroke of the militarization was to be made. HAIRCUTS! Yes, we had spent our first day in uniform with those greaser pompadours, those Beatles bangs and some even had the guts to come with shoulder length Johnny Winters growths. The DI guided us to the base barber and one by one the barber went through us with sheep shears and we were hairless. I later discovered scars I never knew I had. As we exited the door and returned to formation, nobody knew nodody. It was amazing. People who you had now spent 2 days with and given the circumstances had grown to know intimately, including their first name, were gone. Disappeared. When we got back to the barracks, we only then began to realize that the guy in the next bunk was Bill and the guy above was Carl and only because that was who was there before. Oh, that’s what you really look like or to put it another way, we now all looked and dressed as if we were maternal twins, triplets or whatever you call a birth of 150.

Day 3 broke our tourist group into two platoons of roughly 75 each. As we were divided up on the grinder, we became aware of two ominous figures talking to one another who were pointed in our direction. The DI that had been riding roughshod on us indicated that today we were being picked up by our platoon DI and being moved into training barracks. We thought we already were in training barracks but apparently not. We had only been in the holding pen. Recruit platoon 153-1 got the tall, black, extremely fit, first class petty officer in DI dress. My platoon, recruit platoon 153-2 got the short, white, stocky, chief petty officer in full dress black uniform with gold everywhere and crossed anchors at the shoulder, Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate Bates.

Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate Bates addressed us for the first time and indicated we would become Coastguardsmen under his tutelage. His demeanor was such that I knew he meant it.

Barry Trutor is a writer from Burlington, Vermont. He is working on a memoir about his experiences during the Vietnam War.