THE FOLLOWING IS A DESCRIPTION OF SEVERAL OF THE CAMPAIGNS,

AS SEEN THROUGH THE EYES OF A YOUNG, GREEN LIEUTENANT.

TRAINING

            After my graduation from high school, my parents decided I should attend the best R.O.T.C. college that

they could afford. This proved to be Ripon College, Wisconsin. During my first year at Ripon, my father, an

activated National Guard officer, was transferred to Atlanta. He decided I should become an engineer and

continue R.O.T.C. Georgia Tech seemed to be the logical combination.

            I entered Georgia Tech as a sophomore in R.O.T.C. and a freshman in everything else. Fortunately, I

held up my end with R.O.T.C., because everything else was less than mediocre.

            I was rushed by a fraternity whose name I can’t remember, but it was at one of their functions that I met

Betty Jane Williams. I realized instantly that she was the fulfillment of all my dream fantasies. I was absolutely

smitten by her 50 years ago and still feel the same way today.

            For a short time, I also went with a nice lady named Marion. However, I shot myself in the foot one day

when I called Marion’s number and asked for Betty. Smooth!

            About this time it was announced that my Georgia Tech class could enlist in the Enlisted Reserve Corps

or be drafted. I was sick of school, but my dad said, “Go to the Enlisted Reserve Corps and stay in school.” He

must have seen a lot more promise in me that I saw in myself. However, everything turned out all right because

the Enlisted Reserve Corps was the first to be called up.

            Our class headed to basic training at Fort McClelland, Alabama. This, to me, was heaven! No school,

and I could play all those cowboy and Indian games I’d always liked. It was here I picked up the nickname

“Nice.” I asked them why they had given me this name. They said, “Whenever you’re asked how it’s going,

you say, ‘Nice.’”

            There was only one guy more gung-ho than I was. This was my good buddy George Sheppard. We

were so nutty that Shep carried a football in his pack. On 20-mile marches, we’d get a 10-minute break

every hour. Shep would dig out the football and we’d have a 10-minute throw-around. Then back to marching.

            It was at Fort McClelland that I first learned one of the methods the soldiers can voice their displeasure without the officers being able to pinpoint the offender. The scene is a long march—middle of the night—

climbing a long hill under so-called “combat silence.”  One man would yell out “48!” Another would yell “49,”

a third would yell “50!” Then we’d all yell out in unison, “Some shit!” It was humorous watching officers

running up and down the line trying (in vain) to spot the culprit.

            Since our class was all college boys, the instructors didn’t know what to think of us. There were a

lot of 3:00 a.m. inspections to try to keep us in our place. During the last week of class, we were finally told

that when we were “right”—we were the best company to go through the training session. But when our hearts

weren’t in it, we screwed up worse than any preceding class.

            I was 19 years old in basic training. On a leave home, my father asked me how things were going.

I said, “No problem, but some of the older fellows did have problems.” He said, “How old do you mean?”

I replied that we had people as old as 24. He never let me forget it.