Something about a soldie.., p.22
Something About a Soldier, page 22
“Yes, sir,” Hammond said.
“ ‘Yes, Corporal.’ I’m not an officer, so I’m not entitled to a ‘sir.’ Get moving. And when you’re finished, tell me, and I’ll inspect the sheath. I also want to see that button when you get it, understand?”
“Yes, Corporal.” Hammond’s face, already pale, turned as white as toilet paper.
We went into the corral to get our assigned horses as the stable sergeant pointed them out to us, and Hammond went to work on Snip’s sheath.
For the next ninety days no one, including Hammond, ever asked Corporal Royale another question.
TWENTY-THREE
IF YOU HAVE THE TIME, AND THE CAVALRY HAS ALL the time in the world, there’s no better way to learn how to ride a horse than the cavalry way. Horses are big, and they frighten men who don’t know anything about them. The first thing a man has to overcome is his basic, if unadmitted, fear of horses. We were all assigned to gentle horses, well-trained trooper’s mounts, and most of them were at least twelve years old. Each horse had its own personality and peculiar ways, and these had to be learned. A man could get hurt very easily if he wasn’t careful. A horse would bite, and a horse bite is painful because the horse won’t open his mouth after biting down on you. He just clamps down, pulls his head back, and then his teeth slide off eventually. The result is a cruel and painful pinch.
If your foot gets in the way, he will inadvertently step on it; and he will not get off your foot until you push him off balance. Horses, as Corporal Royale reminded us often, are incredibly dumb animals, with brains about the size of a walnut, and although they can be conditioned to respond to a certain set of signals—e.g., a right leading rein, a left bearing rein, and a firm right leg on the girth will make him turn right—he doesn’t know why he does it, or why you made him do it, but he will keep turning in the circle until you give him a new set of signals he has been conditioned to—but enough of all that.
During our first week we just used blankets and surcingles (to keep the blanket in place), bridles with snaffle bits, and single reins. Getting up on a horse without a stirrup is difficult; and learning to keep your reins short at all times isn’t easy either. On the first morning, on our way to the fenced-in riding ring on the upper parade ground, and riding at a walk, with our legs dangling, Hammond let his reins get too loose. His horse, Lefty, got the bit between his teeth, turned left, and galloped back to the stables. Hammond fell off long before Lefty reached the stables, and then he had to get the horse and lead him back to the riding ring.
“That’s why he’s called Lefty,” Corporal Royale explained. “He’s stable-bound, and if you give him the chance, he’ll always turn left before he gallops back to the stables.”
Hammond wasn’t hurt—just a few scratches on his face—but he kept his reins short after that, as did we all. When one man was growled at for doing something wrong, we all learned not to make the same kind of mistake ourselves. There was some security in training by platoon, because you weren’t chewed out as much as if you were getting individual instructions.
In the ring, on that first day, we had to learn how to vault onto the horse’s back from behind. Bourbon, a quiet bourbon-colored horse, was used for this purpose. One man held his head and we took turns running from behind, placing both hands on the croup, and trying to leap up onto his back. This was harder to do than it looked when Corporal Royale demonstrated it. It was a long way up there, and you had to land on either the croup or the back and avoid landing on the kidneys. If you got it into your head that he might kick backwards as you reached him, you wouldn’t be able to vault onto his back because you would hesitate just long enough to muff it. Before the morning ended, all of us had managed to do it several times except Shimer. Shimer, at five seven, was a little short, and he was frightened, with his legs and hands shaking before he made his runs.
“Don’t worry, Shimer,” Corporal Royale told him, not unkindly, “you’ve got ninety days to learn how to do it. And if you can’t make it by then, Sergeant Brasely will transfer you to the infantry.”
We spent the first week at a walk and at a slow trot riding in a circle. The purpose was to learn balance and stretch your legs. We all became sore and raw between the legs, but I’m sure my legs were stretched at least an inch by the end of the week. We also spent a lot of time grooming our horses and having them inspected by Corporal Royale. We had to pick up their feet and clean them, but the horses responded nicely to signals, so no one had any trouble.
My horse, Chesty, had ear warts, and ear warts are very painful to a horse. I had to learn how to bridle him without touching his ears. I did this by unlatching the left cheek strap. I slipped the bit into his mouth and pulled the head strap over his head without touching his ears. I then retightened the cheek strap and didn’t have to touch his ears. This was important to remember, because if Chesty’s ears were touched accidentally, he would strike at you with both front feet. This was scary; a striking horse can split a man’s head open.
I was a little disappointed at first when Corporal Royale told us that our horses didn’t know who we were, that men and women were exactly the same to a horse, and that if you rode a horse every day for five years he still wouldn’t know you from Adam’s house cat. He had no way of telling one person from another. Unlike a dog, the horse couldn’t smell you, and except for the difference in weight, he couldn’t even recognize the difference between a man and a woman rider. He could respond to a tone of voice, but not to words. As long as he got the same set of signals, he would react as he had been conditioned. Some of the guys in our platoon didn’t believe all this about their horses, but I did. I didn’t like Chesty any less because he didn’t know me.
On occasion I gave Chesty a handful of oats or an apple core, but I considered the animal’s studied indifference to me as a positive. Who in the hell would want a personal relationship with a horse?
WE SPENT ABOUT FOUR HOURS EACH MORNING WITH THE horses, which included riding, grooming, and cleaning equipment. Riding every day explained why there were so few fat men in the cavalry. Except for a few dismounted jobs, like the supply sergeant, dining room orderly, and cooks, everyone else in the troop rode about three hours a day. A man could eat all he wanted, but daily riding kept his weight down to trim.
We spent the afternoons learning the parts, and how to field-strip our rifles and pistols. We also practiced dismounted drill in the afternoons, studied cavalry tactics, map reading, and military courtesy, and memorized our General Orders (which I knew already). One afternoon each week was spent clipping horses at the stables. The horses weren’t clipped in the winter, except for reaching manes. It was possible to get hurt clipping horses, too, because many of them didn’t like it, but those who fought the idea were held still with ear or nose twitches.
Since I was broke, I didn’t take any Saturday passes. I was waiting for payday, but payday came as a shock. Payday was a holiday, but it was a cavalry-style payday, meaning that we had to groom horses from 7:30 to 9:30 a.m. before marching back to the troop area for pay call.
Sergeant Brasely made his famous payday speech, and as I learned later, it was the same lecture every payday.
“If you’re going to get drunk, get drunk. If you’re going to get fucked, get fucked. But whatever you do, don’t get drunk and fucked. If you do, you won’t take precautions, and if you don’t take precautions, you’ll get a dose of clap. Some men’ll tell you that a dose of clap’s no worse than a bad cold. That’s a goddamned lie. You’ll be told by some men that they’ve had eight doses of clap and got rid of every dose but the first one. That’s closer to the truth. Clap will make an old man out of you before you’re thirty. So just remember the simple rule. If you’re going to get drunk, get drunk. If you’re going to get fucked, get fucked. But don’t get drank and get fucked at the same time!”
Parker, the actor, was appalled by the first sergeant’s speech. He had never heard anyone talk like that before, using such strong language. I told him if he ever got the clap and had to see Sergeant Brasely, he would probably hear language a lot stronger than that.
The shock came when we went through the pay line. Except for a book of show tickets ($1.20), laundry ($1.50), and dry cleaning ($2.00), and 25¢ for the old Soldiers’ Home, I had a good chunk of pay coming to me. To my surprise, I was only handed $1.50.
“There’s been some kind of mistake, Sergeant Brasely,” I said.
“Not at all. The rest of your pay will be held until you finish basic. Step back a pace, salute the captain, and get the fuck out of the orderly room.”
Back in the squadroom, Furler, Micaloni, and I met and talked about the situation. We had all received just $1.50. When pay call was over Corporal Royale gathered the platoon together and explained:
“Everyone gets a buck-fifty, and that’s all. That’s for your toilet articles, and if you smoke, Bull Durham. The rest of your money will be held in the troop safe. At the end of ninety days, when you finish basic, you’ll all be given a three-day pass and the rest of your money. On the tenth, for those who feel the need, I’ll be able to issue you a three-dollar book of canteen checks. But that’s the way we work it here.”
“That’s one thing you can’t do,” Furler said angrily. “Hold back a man’s pay. I’m entitled to my pay and I want it.”
“That’s tough shit,” Corporal Royale said.
“He’s right, Corporal,” I said. “You really can’t hold a man’s pay for him against his will. There’re regulations against it.”
“But we’re doing it,” Corporal Royale said. “Any more questions before I give out passes?”
“Does the captain know about this?” Micaloni asked.
Corporal Royale smiled and shook his head. “Do you think, you fucking wop, that we could withhold your pay without the captain knowing about it? I know how you feel now, but I’ll tell you one thing: when you get your three-day pass and three months’ pay at the end of basic training you’ll thank me for holding it for you. So smile as you come by me now to get your pass, or I’ll tear up your fucking pass.”
I smiled when I took my pass, although I didn’t think I would use it. After lunch I slept all afternoon. Then I borrowed a dollar from Parker, whose mother sent him money in every letter she wrote to him from Glendale, and I went into town with Micaloni and Furler. We each bought a package of tailor-mades, Dominoes for ten cents a pack, and then went down to Cannery Row. The sardine factories were in full operation, as they would be until midnight or later. At the first factory, where there was a covered overhead conveyor belt from one building to another, we started wheedling sardines, calling up to the sardine queens. These women ignored us at first, but they finally weakened and tossed down twelve cans of sardines. We bought some onions, three loaves of Italian bread, and a gallon of zinfandel at the Chinaman’s store on the Row, and went down to the curving Monterey beach. We built a driftwood fire, tore the insides out of the loaves of bread, and packed the loaves with layers of chopped onions and sardines. Sitting around the fire, we ate the sandwiches and drank the wine. It turned out to be a very pleasant payday, even though we didn’t have enough money to get laid.
“This sure as hell beats the marines,” Furler said. “My ass is sore as a boil from riding, but at least they don’t have us on a four-on, eight-off schedule. That’s something I never got used to in the marines. A four-hour watch, followed by eight hours off, sounds easy enough, but it isn’t. You always have a lot of things to do during your off hours, and then, there you are, back on another four-hour watch before you know it. Except when I was on leave, I never had enough sleep. The four-on, eight-off just goes on and on, month after month, and you think you’ll go crazy.”
We had plenty of things to talk about, as the wine loosened us up a little. None of us had thought that our training would be so hard, for one thing, or that Corporal Royale could get away with so much. For example, when Shimer moved his head while executing a right shoulder arms, Corporal Royale hit Shimer in the back of the head with a rifle butt, knocking the kid unconscious.
“He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with shit like that,” Micaloni said.
“In boot camp, anything goes,” Furler said. “In a lot of ways, it was much worse than this at Parris Island. None of our D.I.’s ever hit anyone with a rifle butt, but they did things like making a man dig a six-by-six-foot hole to bury a cigarette butt. Here, at least, there’s no chickenshit. Everything’s done for a man’s own good. You’ll notice that no one ever moves his head any longer when we go through the manual of arms. Sometimes a hard lesson is a good one for everybody.”
“As long as it was Shimer,” I said, “and not one of us.” We laughed at that. The wine had mellowed us, and the juicy sandwiches and the crackling fire had made us a little sleepy. Although we had all complained at first about the nine p.m. bedcheck, we were so fatigued each night that we were all ready for bed before nine. So at nine-thirty we kicked out the fire and made the long climb back up the hill to Machine Gun Troop.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE FIRST MONTH OF TRAINING WAS THE HARDEST.
After a week with just a blanket and surcingle we got to put on our saddles, but without stirrups. The third week we were allowed to put the stirrups on the saddles, and what a difference they made!
“Stirrups,” Corporal Royale said, “mark the beginning of modern warfare. Before stirrups were invented, men couldn’t wear armor. And then, after armor was invented, someone had to invent gunpowder to blast through the armor. So stirrups were the turning point for professional warfare. Now, kick your feet out of your stirrups again, pick up a slow trot, and I’ll check for the correct length.”
We could all ride at a normal trot now without falling off our horses. But from time to time we still had to ride at a slow trot without stirrups. Then, after we got into posting, we discovered that we all had to tighten our stirrup straps another notch because we were learning the forward seat, the seat developed by Colonel Chamberlain at Fort Riley, Kansas. With your back arched, and leaning forward slightly, and with your shoulders pulled back, it seemed like an unnatural position at first. But once you learned how to do it, it was not tiring, and it was quite comfortable. With shortened stirrups, and with your heels down, your knees were almost welded to the saddle skirt. We also added the curb bit and chain to our bridles, which meant an extra set of reins. We had to learn how to hold four reins with one hand, and with both hands. If, by chance, a man didn’t have the four reins held correctly in the ring, Corporal Royale would ride alongside of him and knock him off his horse with a blow to the neck. I was never knocked off, but Hammond, Burns, and Wilcox were knocked off on the first day we had four reins.
We learned various drill formations, in and out of the ring, and some basic dressage. We had to learn how to make our horses go sideways, backwards, and take diagonals; and to mount and dismount from the off side as well as the near side. Then, while one man led our horse, we had to run beside him and mount at the trot. By the fourth week we were taking long rides through the woods, staying four feet from head to croup as we rode in a column of twos, and learning how to duck tree limbs. (A horse doesn’t give a damn; he will ignore the fact that you’re on his back and scrape you off if he can when there’s a low-hanging limb.)
Trotting at nine miles per hour (an extended trot) was hard on the kidneys. After six weeks of riding I noticed that I was pissing blood in the morning. I wasn’t the only one in my squad, so I mentioned it to Corporal Royale.
“Don’t worry about it,” he told us. “If you weren’t pissing a little blood by now, after six weeks, I’d worry that you were doing something wrong. Your kidneys are settling down, that’s all, and so are your other organs. You’re going to have lower back pain, too, and that’s to be expected. But after six months or so, every internal organ will shake down nicely and you’ll no longer be bothered. You ass won’t hurt, either, unless we ride twenty-five or thirty miles in one day, as we do when we go on maneuvers.”
I was reassured, but not much. It hurt my back to bend over in the mornings to lace up my boots, and it’s scary to have blood in your urine. I didn’t relish the idea of having a sore ass for six months, either. But at least we knew that there was nothing physically wrong with us.
In the evening our recruit platoon had to stand retreat at five p.m., although the regular troops did not. Our rifles were inspected and Corporal Royale looked over our uniforms. If a button was inadvertently left unbuttoned, he cut it off with his penknife and handed it back to sew on again before the next formation. Our boots, now dyed cordovan, had to be polished as well. We were off duty on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, just like the other troopers on straight duty, but if a man was gigged at these retreat formations, he had to clip horses on Wednesday or Saturday afternoon as punishment.
After the eighth week, however, Sergeant Brasely inspected the platoon only one night at retreat, and after that he excused Furler, Micaloni, and me from the daily retreat formations. We were P.S. men, so we were given this small privilege during our last four weeks of training.
We ate at five-thirty, but supper was usually light because the big meal each day was at noon. If you ate a big dinner, you weren’t very hungry at supper. But by eight-thirty or later a man would get hungry again, and it was tough to be broke and hungry at the same time. There was a small off-post cafe down the alley about three hundred yards away from the barracks. It was possible to slip through the fence at this point and get to the cafe. There were four small tables and a counter without stools, and the old lady who ran the place would give a man jawbone, up to one dollar a month. I got jawbone there the second month of training, but when the tenth of the month came around I had to pay Parker back the dollar I owed him. After paying Parker I only had one dollar in canteen checks left, and I needed that for Bull Durham and a new chin strap for my campaign hat. Because I still owed the old harridan a dollar, I could no longer go to the cafe at night, and I would hallucinate about her ten-cent hamburgers, piled high with fried onions, sliced tomatoes, and mayonnaise. At these times I truly resented the withholding of my pay. Some guys, if there happened to be fruit for supper, would sneak out an apple or an orange to eat later. But if the mess sergeant, “Thin Slice” Nevell, caught you, he’d gig you.
