I probably received my greatest compliment ever shortly after the training session ended. I was the only man

in my class offered a job on the training cadre as an enlisted man. However, I decided to go back to Tech with

my friends.

            After our 17-week basic training, the Georgia Tech boys were returned to Tech. We didn’t know what

they intended doing with us. I was flunking most of my subjects. My friend George Sheppard decided he was

going to volunteer for the paratroopers. I thought this was a great idea, but my dad said, “Wait a little bit. They

have something in mind for you.”

            To break up the monotony, two of us R.O.T.C. boys were selected as first sergeants to “control”

the new A.S.T.P. imports to Georgia Tech. These A.S.T.P. men were Army veterans of two to three years

who had been selected to continue their schooling. I instantly acknowledged they knew a hell of a lot more

than I did. I never was much of a parade ground soldier, but they protected me, as all my friends have done.

            A disaster was averted when I took over for the cadet company commander at an annual review. I was marching in front of the company, with a 16-man front. My first recognition that there was a problem was a

yell from the front rank, “For God’s sake, Bill, right turn! Right turn!” They finally made the right turn

without an order. Left to my own resources, I would have marched the company up into the bleachers.

People always seem to come to the aid of a clown.

            As it happened, Shep shipped out for the “jump” school at Fort Benning. The rest of us left a week

later for Officer’s Candidate School (OCS), also at Fort Benning.

            OCS was a grind. You were under observation constantly. Our “bird dog” was called a TAC

(Training, Advising, and Counseling) officer. They were totally fair and impartial, with absolutely no

sense of humor. They actually lived in our barracks and would give fatherly counseling at any time,

night or day.

            I continued my gung-ho attitude and got along well for about five weeks. Then my Achilles’ heel

became exposed. While I talked constantly, I had never spoken to a group before. I got up before a class and

butchered a lecture. The TAC officer called me in that night and told me bluntly that I had been doing well,

but one more episode like that and I was history.

            When we got to the sixteenth week, I thought I was going to make it. I found this was a false assumption

when I was “selected” to be the company commander in a live ammunition problem. I was turned over to

a major who said he would double-check my orders so we didn’t kill anybody. I knew they had me.

            The major described the situation: Live artillery on the hill, live mortar fire and machine guns.

All I had to do is tell him when to stop the firing and send in the men. I had no idea what he was talking

about. He suddenly told me to return to my unit.

            I was thankful, but confused. I asked my classmates what happened. They said, “The artillery shot

down the liaison (artillery spotting) air plane.” It seemed the airplane (Piper Cub) had flown directly into

the trajectory of a high-explosive 105mm shell. Obviously, both pilots were killed.

            Six months later I was in Texas as a second lieutenant. I went to the Officers Club, had a couple of

drinks, and, to my great regret, started telling the story of how I got through OCS. When I completed the story,

a man I had only known for a month stated that he knew all about it. I was horrified when he said his brother

had been one of the pilots. He made it easy on me, but the damage had been done.