After receiving my commission, I was assigned to the 103d Division at Camp Howze, Texas. It was

amazing to me that the lieutenant bars could change people. Two of my classmates turned into the biggest

horses’ behinds in the world. The rest of us knew we were just starting our education.

            The sergeants now took over our education. My first lesson occurred about two weeks after I arrived at

Camp Howze. We were out in the woods in a mock-up of combat. Always the eager beaver, I ran around from

foxhole to foxhole checking on the men. When I returned to my foxhole, I noticed the platoon sergeant lounging

nearby. Although I was reluctant to comment, I said, “Sergeant, shouldn’t you be checking on the men?”

He replied, “I thought so, Lieutenant, but you seem to be doing everything. So I thought I’d rest until I’m needed.” Touché!

            My Achilles’ heel of poor lecturing, first exposed in OCS, followed me to Texas. About a month

after I joined Company L, 411th, I was told to give a one-hour lecture on “The Handling of Prisoners of War.” 

I had a one-hour notice and was given one page from the field manual as reference. I had no idea what to say!

I ran out of words in 10 minutes. I was told that this was the first time the company had a 10-minute lecture

and a 50-minute break to fill in the hour.

            Among my personal favorites—as a number one character—was a fellow “shavetail” (second lieutenant)

by the name of Bob. Bob came from Hawaii and much to every GI company commander’s consternation, he

could be found in the enlisted men’s barracks serenading them with a ukulele. It seems that he had been

transferred from the Air Force to the infantry when he landed his airplane behind his instructor, in a

separate airplane, and chewed up the instructor’s tail assembly with his propeller. We got along famously.

He was a good officer, but couldn’t stand the typical army crap.

            One of my favorite recollections concerning my six months of training as an officer concerned a

particular night field exercise. Three of us were selected to infiltrate a perimeter defense and just raise

hell in general. I loved this type of assignment as long as nobody was shooting at me.

            With my tremendous acumen for scouting, I was captured shortly after we started the exercise. Two

young soldiers escorted me to the “black-out” tent. It was pitch black and both of the guards were behind me.

A portly major came into the tent and said, “Where’s the prisoner?” Quick as a wink, I said, “Back there!”

When the major passed me, he blocked the path and I took off through the night. I think I was unconsciously

following a white tape fastened to trees. I had run about 50 yards when I fell in a six-foot deep hole. I pulled

myself out, took three steps and fell in another. It seems I had set some sort of record as the first lieutenant to

fall into two latrines in 30 seconds.

            I was still free inside the perimeter and did my dastardly deeds. These included taking a sleeping

soldier’s rifle and sticking it in the ground bayonet first. I now knew the password, so decided to brazen it

out and slip back outside the perimeter. Unfortunately, I somehow became disoriented. I was challenged

and gave the password. The answer was, “You’re right, you S.O.B. We’ve been looking for you for an hour.

This is where you came in.”

            They forced me to sleep outside under guard. By the next morning, all 15,000 men in the division

knew about the shavetail who had fallen into two latrines.

            After several months of what seemed to us as foolishness, several of us volunteered for the

paratroopers. It was approved through the regiment, but stopped at the division level when it was announced

we were going overseas.