A few hours later we pulled into Fort Dix in New Jersey. All I remember about that place is that they gave us uniforms and shots against diseases I never heard of, and they had us cutting officers' lawns. After a couple of days some of us boarded another bus, this time an overnight journey to Fort Breckinridge in Kentucky — and things began to get interesting. The first shock was that we were in Company A, 101 Airborne Infantry Division. When we saw that sign over the door of the Company HQ, we almost fainted — figuratively of course. I ain't jumpin outta some airplane, someone yelled. We learned that 101 Airborne Division — also known as the Screaming Eagle — was now in a basic training mode, so we wouldn't be jumping any time soon.

The war in Korea wasn't going very well at that time, something even those of us who kept up with the news weren't aware of because actual news reports, that is, those that told the public the truth, were far and in between those days. That meant that there were very few noncoms and officers around to train new guys like us because they were so badly needed in Korea. In fact, we only had the Company Commander, a lieutenant who was really a lawyer. Then there was First Sergeant Jackson, a battle-scarred veteran who was in Hawaii when the Japs attacked. He ran the company, but I guess First Sergeants run most companies. The Field First Sergeant was Silas Taylor, a wiry little guy from Georgia who had spent a lot of time in Korea, was wounded a few times, and even had a Silver Star. I was really surprised — we all were — to learn that he was only twenty-one years old, because he had eyes that looked a lot older. There were no more noncoms, except for Sgt. Alphabet, who ran the quartermaster section, so didn't really count. On our first day Sgt. Taylor asked if anyone had military experience. No one had, but one guy was a cop in civilian life, so they made him Acting Platoon Leader. Another guy was a lifeguard at Jones Beach, so they made him one too. And so on. I thought of mentioning that I had been a Boy Scout but decided not to. They probably would have made me Acting Company Commander.

One day during the first week, Sgt. First Class Silas Taylor ran us up a hill. He went first and got there about a hundred yards before the first trainee. We struggled up puffing and groaning and Sgt. Taylor waited until the last one arrived before he began his speech, which went something like this, after telling us to “light 'em up those that got 'em and relax.” Those days everyone smoked so everyone who had 'em lit 'em up.

“Ah said run up this here hill and you pussies didn’t run, you crawled.” He didn’t shout, just talked loud enough in his Southern accent for all of us to hear. Some of us had never even heard a Southern accent before, except in the movies. “Now, if y’all keep doin' things that I tell y’all to do like that, I mean crawlin' instead a runnin', your gonna be fuckin' me, cause ahm supposed to get this here company in shape to go over and fight the enemy. That means you-all. In shape! Now ah don’t like to be fucked, So if y’all fuck me, I’m gonna fuck you-all. And you can bet your sweet asses that I can fuck y’all better than y’all can fuck me. On the other hand, if y’all do what ah says, and do it like ah says, y’all will not have any problems in this here company. Is-that-understood? Silence. Answer me, goddammittafuckinhell!” He did shout the last word, if you can call it a word. “Yes, Sergeant,” someone mumbled. “Louder! All a yuh!” He made us say it louder about five times until we were screaming. “OK, now we’re goin’ down the hill and we’re runnin'. If any a you city slickers don’t know what runnin' means, I’m telling ya. It means movin' fast.”

He was as good as his word. A couple of wise guys who thought they could get away with goofing-off found themselves on a week of KP, one guy even got sent back to a new company and had to start basic all over again. And when we did things right, we sometimes got off some shit details or got weekend passes. He won our respect. He was fair and could do everything he made us do better than we could.

The problem with our first night-march was that Freddy Polanski, the medic, had the flu and couldn’t go. Some thought that Freddy had some medical school because he was a pretty good medic, but I think he just took the three-day first aid course they give for medics because it was better than the rifle range or hiking up hills. It wasn’t like in Saving Private Ryan, where the medic could perform a heart transplant on the battlefield. The second problem was Lieutenant Scumbag. I forget his real name, but that’s what we called him. He simply appeared one day standing alongside Sgt. Taylor when we were in formation. Sgt. Taylor said this is Lt. Scumbag (he used his real name, naturally) and he’ll be with us from now on. End of introduction.

“Who wants to be medic until Pvt. Polanski is back on his feet?” Sgt. Taylor asked. We had been in training for two months of the four-month course and had already learned the basic army rule: never volunteer for anything. But I wasn’t sure that was always a good rule to live by. Look at Sy Abrams. On the first day they asked if anyone knew how to type. Sy raised his hand, and they made him Acting Company Clerk — no lying in the mud at the rifle range, no night marches, no KP. It was from Sy, by the way, that we learned about the argument between Sgt. Taylor and Lt. Scumbag. But I’ll get to that later.

I raised my hand, volunteering to be medic. Sgt. Taylor was glad that he didn’t have to ask if someone had medical experience and when no one answered just appoint somebody. “OK, Smith,” he said, “Go get Polanski’s stuff.”

Every company has a medic and in combat he doesn’t carry his full field equipment, only his first-aid kit and a light carbine rifle instead of the heavy M1. That’s so he can run unimpeded to the wounded. His other stuff goes in the truck with the officers’ things. As training is supposed to be as realistic as possible, our medic went lightly loaded, too. That’s why I volunteered. Boy, did I think I was smart!

I’ll tell you about the argument now. Just before the march, Lt. Scumbag, Field First Sgt. Taylor, and First Sgt. Jackson were getting some paperwork done in the First Sgt.’s office (actually all they were doing was signing; Sy did all the work). Lt. Scumbag asked Sgt. Taylor if he was going to carry his field pack or put it in the truck. “We ain’t got no truck for this march,” Sgt. Taylor said. “No truck, no pack.”

“Well, Sergeant, I believe in doing everything the men have to do, so we’ll be carrying packs, too.” Taylor and Jackson looked at him like he was out of his mind.

“I’m sure that Lt. Nugent would agree with me,” Scumbag added, sensing the coming opposition.

First Sgt. Jackson just laughed and handed a paper to Sy to retype because he didn’t like the margins. Sgt. Taylor got red in the face though, especially his eagle-shaped nose, which was a sure sign that he was furious.

“Maybe that’s what they teach you college kids in ROTC, but in this here Company A, 101st Airborne Division, we do it our way — Loo-ten-int.”

Now, sergeants are supposed to obey lieutenants and be respectful, but Sgt. Taylor had just spoken with such dripping scorn in his voice that Lt. Scumbag was…well…nonplussed, to say the least. He knew that the sergeant was a Silver Star holder with two combat tours while he, Scumbag, was, militarily speaking, nada. But he didn’t know that last part yet. What if he ordered Taylor to carry his own pack and Taylor told him to fuck off? He couldn’t take that chance, so he said he would carry his pack and the sergeant could do as he pleased.

“Durned right,” Sgt. Taylor agreed. “Anything else, Jack?” he asked Jackson.

“Yeah, how about submitting an application for OCS?” (Officers Candidate School)

Sgt. Taylor didn’t miss a beat: “Sure, have Abrams type it up and wipe some general’s ass with it.” He turned and left quick time while Jackson roared laughing, Sy smirked, and Lt. Scumbag looked like a turnip.

Left ... left ... left my wife and forty-nine kids in a starving condition without any gingerbread, thought I did right ... right ... and so on. That’s one of the songs we sang while marching through the camp streets. Another one was Avanti Popolo, which John Friccero taught us. It was in Italian, so no one except him understood the words. (It was only much later, when John and I were in Military Intelligence in Germany and they kicked him out because of his pinko background in college, that I learned it was from the Communist International. John said he wasn’t really a communist, just sang the song to show how ignorant the army was. He was a college professor, for God’s sake. When they kicked him out of Intelligence he got a job in Public Information, so he was better off.) The whole company sang, shouted rather, Avanti Popolo and John sang the rest of the concert in his beautiful, strong tenor. We only had to know when to come in again with Avanti Popolo.

The soldiers from the other companies always came out to watch us march by. We were the coolest company in the regiment, no doubt about it. We also had a real drummer, a black guy whose first name was J.B. They tried to get him to give his real name, but he insisted that was his real name, he had no other, even had a birth certificate to prove it. Most of the other companies’ drummers just banged on the drum to the marching beat, but J.B. was a jazz drummer and he made marching a pleasure. We skipped, hopped and dragged. Lt. Scumbag was horrified, but Sgt. Taylor, though he didn’t skip or hop, tolerated it looking straight ahead with a small smile. We knew he liked it, although he sure as hell didn’t know what Avanti Popolo means.

The Night March

We marched out of the camp onto a country road. It was a cold clear night and the sky with the stars pinned to it was so low that you felt you could touch it. Sgt. Taylor gave the walk-easy command. I was alone at the tail end of the four-abreast column walking lightly without a pack and convinced that volunteering was a good idea— sometimes. After a few miles the road narrowed just as the moon came up, giving us the light we would need. Sgt. Silas Taylor had it all figured out, of course. He knew the moon would arrive just when we needed it. He was in the middle and to the left of the column, where he belonged, and Lt. Scumbag bounced along at its head. We compressed ourselves into two columns twice as long from head to ass-end, that is, me.

The road got rougher as we went, but we had already marched it during the day, so we expected that. At about halfway, five miles, the column suddenly stopped and I, dreaming, bumped into the guy in front of me. A couple of minutes later I heard the cry: MEDIC! Shit, that’s me. I ran up along the column to where Lt. Scumbag was waving his arms at me. He, Sgt. Taylor and a group of grunts were huddled around someone sitting on the ground. When they opened up for me to pass, I saw it was Fat Boy, I think his name was George something. Apparently, he’d stepped on a rock while going downhill and was holding his ankle and grimacing.

“This man is injured, Medic,” Lt. Scumbag said, as though I couldn’t see that for myself.

I knelt down alongside him and asked what happened. “My fuckin' ankle, hurts like hell,” he whined. Sgt. Taylor knelt beside me and whispered, “Take off his boot.”

“Want me to give him a shot of morphine first?” I asked.

“This ain’t the movies, Smith. You ain’t got no morphine anyway. Just take off his boot and act like you know what you’re doing.”

“Lay down, Fat Boy. I’m going to take off your boot and see what

you got.”

“Put a blanket under him first,” the sergeant said.

I unlaced his boot and pulled it off as gently as I could. You’d think I was amputating the way he squealed. The ankle was red and swollen. I looked in my first-aid kit for the first time and found an elastic bandage. I took it out and looked at Sgt. Taylor, who nodded. So I wrapped it tightly around Fat Boy’s ankle.

“Take the extra socks out of his pack and put them on him,” Sgt. Taylor said to someone. “And wrap him in another blanket.”

“Yes and use a blanket and two rifles to make a stretcher, Lt. Scumbag interjected.”We can carry him that way.”

Sgt. Taylor ignored him. “Popeye!” he yelled down the line. “Yo,” came the answer.

“Get yuh ass over here.”

Popeye was a skinny little runt, but the only one in the company who could run faster and farther than Sgt. Taylor, if he was motivated, such as by a direct order.

“Run,” Taylor told him. “And ah mean run, back to camp, to the hospital, and tell them to send an ambulance here. Tell them it’s serious, a man down, or they’ll finish their hand of poker before deciding to leave. You come with them, so the dumb bastards don’t get lost. Got it?”

“Got it, Sarge.” And he took off like Road Runner.

The ambulance arrived in record time. I half expected to see Popeye running along in front of it, leading the way, but he was sleeping on the patient’s cot in the back.

“Hell, lieutenant,” the young doctor said to Scumbag, “I expected to find a comatose patient, the way your runner described it. This man looks like he sprained his ankle.”

“We thought it might be broken, Sir.” The doc didn’t have any rank on his whites, but Scumbag figured anyone must outrank him. “Of course, the runner, the messenger, is prone to exaggeration, but then sometimes it’s better to exaggerate than to ignore a possible serious casualty …” He would have gone on philosophizing, but the doc turned his back and told his driver to supervise getting Fat Boy into the ambulance. That’s when they found Popeye, and unceremoniously tossed him out of the ambulance.

We finished the march, had the day off. Fat Boy came out of the hospital with a cast on his ankle and crutches. No break but some ligaments were strained. Company A won the regimental award for best company the whole four months we were there. They wanted to promote Captain Nugent to major, but he said no, then he’d have to go to regiment and he thought his work as Company Commander was more important at this time of crisis for our country, so they left him alone.

All that's only to give you an idea, a feeling rather, of what infantry basic training was like during the Korean War. Now we come to the really big, the life-changing, maybe even life-saving choice.

The Russian choice

One day a couple of weeks before Basic Training ended, when we had just finished morning roll call, which consisted of Company A's four platoons standing alongside each other and facing Field First Sgt. Taylor, and after all the acting squad leaders had saluted their acting platoon leaders, the acting platoon leaders had about-faced, saluted Sgt. Taylor and yelled, in order: First Platoon all present and accounted for Sir, Second Platoon ... and so on, acting Cpl. Sy ran up to me and said that First Sgt. Jackson wants to see me in his office like now. I asked Sy what's goin' on, because he knew everything. “Just go, man, it ain't bad news.” He said that because when they called you into the office it was usually because someone died at home.

“You Private Frank T. Smith?” the First Sgt. asked me when I stumbled into his office. When I confirmed that I was indeed me, he told me that I was not to go out with the rest of the company on training today. “What are they doing today?”

“Don’t know, Sergeant.”

“Well, whatever it is you stay here until about oh-eight hundred then go to Classification and Assignment. Be there at oh-eight- thirty.”

I stood there with my mouth open.

“That's all, Private.”

Before leaving I asked as humbly as I could sound why I was going to Classification & Assignment, whatever that was.

“Don't know, son,” Sgt. Jackson said with a lopsided grin. “Maybe they're gonna classify and assign you, hope it don't hurt. ”The Company Clerk will give you a map of Fort Breckinridge and point out where C&A is or is supposed to be.”

Maybe I haven't mentioned before that all the buildings in Breckinridge were World-War-Two relics. The barracks had cellars with furnaces, but the smaller buildings, like C&A, used coal- burning pot-bellied stoves. I entered a few minutes early and there were already about a dozen other guys already there, seated, silently, facing a podium. They all looked at me when I entered, saw no stripes on my sleeve, so returned to contemplating the lectern. Finally, at exactly oh-eight-thirty a master-sergeant entered and took his place at the lectern. Although we were a captive audience, we were also a most interested one. I was the only one from Company A. Later in my military career I learned that a master- sergeant at division level is more important and thus more powerful than a colonel, because he actually does the work. That may be hyperbole, but it's the impression I had, encouraged by having read James Jones' From Here to Eternity.

He took his time contemplating us, his face grim, as if he had a disagreeable tale to tell. Then his face cracked into a grin. “Okay gentlemen, I got some news for you that you're gonna like.” He opened a folder and read our names, listed alphabetically. We confirmed that we were us. “All present, good. You guys have been selected to attend the Army Language School in Monterey, California, after basic training for one year ... if you want to of course, you see it's voluntary.” No reaction, we were stunned. ” Yo u can study a language of your choice,” the sergeant went on, “limited to four possibilities. Are you listening?” We were, “Swedish (pause), Russian (pause), Chinese Mandarin (dramatic pause) or Korean."

Any red-blooded American boy would choose Swedish of course, thinking of beautiful blonde Swedish girls whispering sweet nothings into his ear, in Swedish naturally. Except me. I was on a Dostoevsky kick. I don't remember why I started reading The Brothers Karamazov, but I did, and it knocked me out. Then Tolstoy. I'd wondered what it must be like to read them in the original, in Russian. Now this guy, this sergeant in camp Breckinridge, Kentucky, was offering me the opportunity to do that, eventually.

“Oh, just one more thing,” he said. “There's a catch: if you are accepted to the Army Language School you will have to re-enlist for three years after basic training.” He paused for a minute to let that sink in. Draftee time was 18 months whereas three years amounted to 36 months plus the three months of basic training. He stepped down and handed out a paper to each of us. Once back at the lectern he said, “Fill out this form and don't forget to sign it at the bottom.”

Under name and serial number (which I still remember by the way: RA51205582) we were to write in our first, second and third language choices. Someone asked if we could think it over and bring the paper back tomorrow.

“No, you can't ask your mommy, sonny. You do it now or leave.” Everyone, we learned later, put Swedish first, then Russian, Chinese Mandarin and, lastly, Korean — obviously. If I have a guardian angel, he must have been directing my hand as I wrote Russian first, followed by Swedish and Chinese Mandarin. It was an inspired choice!

The sergeant told us we'd be informed when to return. I walked out in a daze which covered my head like a cloud, until I was awakened by some asshole officer who shouted at me to take your hands out of your pockets, soldier, and salute when you see an officer. I took my hands out of my pockets but didn't salute because he'd already passed. But his existence awakened me to the fact that if I was accepted as a student in the Language School it would mean California instead of Korea — at least for a year. I looked around and realized that I had not been walking back to Company A's barracks, but in the opposite direction.

A week later after roll call Acting Cpl. Sy grabbed me again, but this time told me to go directly to Classification and Assignment instead of reporting first to First Sgt. Jackson. Back at C&A the master sergeant took his own miniature roll call: we were all present and accounted for. “OK, listen up. The quota for the Swedish language course had already been filled by the time your applications arrived, so all of you who put Swedish as first choice were rejected. Well, it looks like that means all of you,” he grinned, “except — he looked down at the paper in his hand —”Smith. Which one are you?” I raised my hand. “OK, you picked Russian, so you were accepted. You will receive your orders and instructions in due time.”

“What about us Sergeant?” a fat guy up front asked.

“Good question Private, shows your interest.” I don't know if he was being ironic, but kind of suspect he was. “The Russian course is also full, but you can choose between Chinese Mandarin and Korean.” A couple guys got up and left. One of them mumbled: “Swedish, yeah my ass,” as he walked out. The sergeant handed out papers again to the future Chinese Mandarin linguists. No one chose Korean. “Smith, you can go.” So I did. Later on I thought about my choice of volunteering to be drafted at exactly the right time. If I had waited, the Russian course probably wouldn't have been available, and I'd have wound up in Korea.

Before leaving Basic Training, I must at least mention Agnello. I didn't know him well because he was in a different barracks, but I certainly knew of him, as did we all. After only a few weeks of Basic, he announced that the army was bullshit and he was leaving, which meant deserting. And that was no joke in wartime. He said they turned him down when he applied to be an ambulance driver like driver like Ernest Hemingway. The only thing holding him back was the promise of a week-long leave after eight weeks of Basic, enough time to go home. But the catch — there's always a catch — was if anyone went AWOL the leave was canceled for everyone. Agnello said he'd stay till after the leave before absconding. However, something happened that made Agnello's sacrifice moot. The UN forces in Korea — 90 per cent of which were U.S. — were getting pushed back south of the 38th parallel by the Chinese and North Koreans, so Washington decided to suspend all leaves and get us new guys over there ASAP. The day after the news was given to us Agnello left. We never saw him again. We heard that he went home to Massachusetts where the MPs arrested him.

Neither mustn't I forget Magarino. He was Puerto Rican and our barrack comedian. He pretended to be furious at his superiors for forcing him to shave off his mustache which, according to him, was luxurious and sexy. One afternoon after training he stood in the middle of the barrack and shouted, with his slight Spanish accent, “The sergeant, he tells me Sound off like you got a pair a balls! Thank God my wife, she don't hear.” He then opened his fly and ifted his testicles plus penis out: “Are not these balls ... or not they are balls?”

On the last day of Basic Training, Company A stood at attention after breakfast: four platoons of 4 squads each totaling about 144 men. The only real cadre present were First Field Sergeant Silas Taylor and First Sergeant Jackson. The Company Commander was absent, probably nursing a hangover. All the rest — squad leaders, assistant squad leaders, platoon leaders — were make-believe, were actors, were us. After the squad leaders reported to the platoon leaders that we were “all present and accounted for, Sir,” except Agnello of course, but that was old news, the platoon leaders reported to the Field First Sergeant who reported to the First Sergeant that we were all present and accounted for Sir, First Sgt. Jackson looked behind him and saw in the distance the Company Commander standing as straight as possible. Jackson did a smart about-face and reported: “Company A all present and accounted for, Sir.” The C.C. Saluted back, shouted “Carry on, Sergeant,” did a left-face and disappeared. Acting Company Clerk Sy appeared pushing a table on rollers with a pile of papers on top held down by a stone. He stopped next to Sgt. Jackson and read from the first papers, which were our individual orders listed alphabetically.

“Ackerman, Saul G.” He handed the orders to Sgt. Jackson. Saul Ackerman — who was killed in Korea I was told — came front and center and Jackson shook his hand, handed him his orders and said “Good luck, son …” He said the same thing to everyone, but somehow, we felt that he meant it. Most of the Company A trainees were ordered to a transportation unit on the West Coast, which meant being shipped to Japan, finally to infantry units in Korea. The rest were ordered to a transportation unit in New York, which indicated Germany as final destination. They were the lucky ones. But not as lucky as I, whose orders were to report to the Army Language School in Monterey, California, in fifteen days.

Another guy who wasn't going overseas right away was Dumbo (I don't remember his real name, but he wasn't called Dumbo only because of his big ears) who volunteered for the newly founded “Special Forces,” which was an elite way to die asap. Dumbo volunteered for everything including keeping the coal boilers under the barracks going at night. He was the opposite of Agnello.

Sgt. Silas Taylor was promoted to Master Sergeant, which he certainly deserved. Master Sergeants are respected by their underlings much more than most officers, who are parasites who never work and are provided with room and board free of charge. Generally speaking, if you can stand the bullshit, the army is ideal for the naturally lazy. Except if you're unlucky enough to get involved in a war, like Ackerman did. After my fifteen-day leave, my father drove me to the airport in New York. My duffel-bag didn't fit into the trunk, so we left the trunk-lid open with the bag half out. When we got to the airport the bag wasn't there; it'd either bounced out or was stolen when we stopped for a red light. My father said he’d look for it on the way home, but it was never found. So I arrived at the Language School with only the clothes on my back. I gradually bought the uniform stuff from quartermaster, but I didn't complain. It was better than Korea.