Relative Humility: A Journal of Life in a Peacetime Army During the Mid-Fifties

By Frank Fowler

After graduating from college with a degree in forestry, Frank Fowler was eager to apply his newly acquired knowledge, but instead was drafted into the army. He was not prepared for the debilitating effect of losing his personal freedom. Supervision was often couched in game-playing and mindless exercises. Some of it could be rationalized as necessary during basic training, but it was clearly beyond the pale when the bullying leadership continued to persist. He realized a strategy to stave off depression was needed. With a few like-minded friends a deliberate effort was made to find humor in daily living. This led to walking the line between acceptable and reprehensible behavior. The uplifting effect of laughter brought such mental relief that excess energies were frequently directed to this end. While his actions may now seem childish, it was a serious attempt to survive a system that was sucking at his sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664143968

Frank Fowler

Ewa Unoke, a transitional justice advocate and consultant is currently Assistant Professor of Political Science at the KCK Community College, Kansas. He received his Ph.D. in Political Science from Howard University with emphasis on International Relations and Comparative Politics. Dr. Unoke, having worked for the prestigious United Nations Conference on Trade and Development as a Visiting Professor, he has continued to promote liberation pedagogy, world peace and security. Dr. Unoke is the author of three books and numerous other scholarly articles including: “The Post-Colonial State in the Maintenance of Internal and International Peace and Security”, “Africa and African-American Nationalism; A Comparative Perspective in Transitional Justice”(a book chapter), “ The Untold Story of the Liberian War”.

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Copyright © 2020 by Frank Fowler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/23/2020

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

819692

To my Army Buddies

Another book written by Frank Fowler is available at Xlibris:

High-mountain Two-manner

Acknowledgements

A heart-felt thanks to Jim Fowler for his constant help

and encouragement. Also, thanks to Ken Marsden, Jack

Lyles, Ron and Charlene Loge, Alan Weltzien, Debbie

Sporich, and Otis Anderson for their suggestions.

The cover picture is of Frank Fowler, Ralph

Doolan, and John Brandenstein.

They were roommates at Flak Kaserne, Augsburg, Germany.

The stories in Relative Humility are true, at least that is my

belief. All of the characters are real and their names unchanged,

except for those that had to be fabricated because I couldn’t

remember them. A few incriminating stories, such as those

involving virulent rashes or embarrassments associated with

surprise middle-of-the-night hygienic inspections, ached

to be told, but have not, in order to protect the guilty.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1     Fort Jackson

Chapter 2     Fort Bragg

Chapter 3     Operation Sagebrush

Chapter 4     Fort Campbell

Chapter 5     The SS Taylor

Chapter 6     Sheridan Kaserne

Chapter 7     Flak Kaserne

Chapter 8     Scandinavian Leave

Chapter 9     Back to Flak

Chapter 10   Christmas in Germany

Afterword

Epilogue

INTRODUCTION

I look back on my military service with ambivalence. While I disliked the oppressive nature of Army life, I felt a definite pride in having stood my watch. In retrospect, I have wondered if I might have been more accepting of the military had I entered its ranks directly from high school, but college came first. I had spent four years working my way through school, and upon graduation I wanted to put my acquired knowledge to use. With youthful idealism I was eager to spread my wings; not to have them clipped.

Perhaps my attitude would have been different had I completed ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corp) and participated in the Army as an officer. While the experience would have been decidedly different, I’m not convinced I would have been more accepting, although there is little doubt that I would have been less disruptive.

I recognized from the early days of basic training that I needed to overcome the debilitating effect of losing my personal freedom. This was more than a casual objective—it became my primary focus. I knew something could happen that would put us in a combat mode, but it seemed unlikely. I certainly didn’t want it to happen, but I speculated that wartime training would have been attended by a clearer definition of purpose and greater commitment. As it was, supervision was often couched in game-playing and mindless exercises. Some of it could be rationalized as beneficial during basic training, but it was difficult to justify the bullying leadership that continued to persist. In the early 1970s, the draft was replaced by a volunteer system, and it apparently became necessary lure enlisted men into the ranks by increasing a sense of worth in Army service.

When I was on active duty, however, it was a constant challenge to find productive work. I tried to take a laid-back approach, but my frustration lead to disruption. I felt the teeter-totter of my excesses and knew my close friends and I walked a fine line between acceptable and reprehensible behavior. Laughter became our primary response to the effects of military ineptitude.

After leaving active duty, many years passed before I contacted some of my army buddies. In the late 1900s a few of us began emailing stories to each other about the escapades we shared in the military. They brought back flashes of vivid memories so hilarious that some of us were spurred to dig deeper. But I found it difficult to continue: though the events were funny, they were also ludicrous. Why would grown men act in this inane manner? I stopped sharing because I realized our stories were being written out of context. While basically true, they were not as arbitrary as a casual reader might think; they were an intentional effort to maintain our sanity, and it was important to me for that to be understood.

Memories are fickle. Some are so vivid they seem like they happened only yesterday, while others linger in a fog, and when they speak, it’s in whispered, muffled tones that make it difficult to conjure clear images. Such was my situation when I began to write. Some of the fog cleared with concentration, but truth had likely warped with the passage of half a century.

Because of memory gaps, I did not attempt to write a rigid chronology of events, but rather to split my tour of service into parts, and within those parts to capture my thoughts as they surfaced. I may have overlooked significant events, and some may be out of order, but I hope the completed mosaic reflects a clear picture of my life as a soldier and a sense of my struggle, not only to survive, but to empower myself with the capacity to enjoy whatever life had to offer.

CHAPTER 1

Fort Jackson

Genesis

T he uniforms of those enrolled in ROTC brought a visual, dramatic impact to our college campus, but they had nothing to do with my participation in the program. When I started school in the fall of 1950 it was a requirement in land grant schools that all physically able male students study military science and tactics for two years. There was no choice, except to choose between an option for the U.S. Air Force or the U.S. Army, and I chose the former. In my junior year I was to begin Advanced Air Force Training, but flunked the physical because of an amblyopic eye. I considered switching to the Army option, but my schedule could not be easily adjusted to accommodate a change. It also appeared questionable that I could pass the Army physical, but perhaps the overriding reason I decided to drop ROTC altogether was that I disliked spending so much time studying a subject I didn’t enjoy.

After graduation, I began working for the U.S. Forest Service. I soon found myself preoccupied with the uncertainty of my draft status, so I contacted my draft board. They said I would be conscripted, but not for several months. They were unable to give any insight regarding how my poor eyesight might affect my eligibility. I decided to volunteer for the draft and find out. Consequently I was sent to Walter Reed Hospital for several consultations. It was determined that I could serve in the Army, but only in a category III capacity. That meant I was unfit for front line duty. More importantly, it meant I would receive some kind of specialized training other than advanced infantry. My induction into the U.S. Army took place on January 25, 1955. I was sent to Fort Jackson, near Columbia, South Carolina, to take basic training in the 101st Airborne Division. The arm patch for the 101st was an eagle’s head with a wide-open beak. Some referred to it as the screaming eagle, and others as the puking eagle; it depended on one’s perspective. I was assigned to Service Battery, 81st Airborne Field Artillery Battalion. Irrespective of the nomenclature, it was a company of four platoons of soldiers in a training status—boot camp, if you will. Each platoon was comprised of six squads of eight men.

We were housed in wall tents erected on sturdy wooden frames over heavy plank floors. Each tent was equipped with a coal stove, four cots, four foot lockers, four wall lockers, and one light bulb. In Army fashion it was adequate, but barely.

A Cowboy’s Lament

On our first day in the company we were asked a rather puzzling question by a drill sergeant. Who here can ride a horse? No one answered. Surely somebody knows how to ride a horse. Still, no one responded. I can see you are suspicious, so I’ll make this promise. You will be excused from any other duty while on this special assignment. Another guy and I raised our hands. Cowboys, YOU WILL BE RIDING THE RANGE TONIGHT. And so we did. I couldn’t believe I had allowed myself to be suckered. All night we scrubbed the stoves in the kitchen, and I gained the first piece of information that helped define how I would conduct myself in my new home. Specifically, never, ever volunteer for anything.

Anybody Got a Dime?

Basic training had hardly started when we were requested to contribute to the March of Dimes. I had already given, so I declined this second opportunity—much to the chagrin of the commanding officer (CO). He pontificated about the importance of our contributions because it added immeasurably to our sense of worth and demonstrated our esprit de corps.

In order to improve our attitude, we were made to stand in ranks several times in darkness. The giving increased, but several of us held out despite the fact that we knew anything less than 100% participation would reflect negatively on the CO’s record. Eventually everyone gave but me. I’m convinced that the CO contributed on my behalf in order to meet the hierarchy’s expectations, but I had the satisfaction of knowing I did not capitulate to the pressure to give a second time just to please the CO. I was also the only man in the company who didn’t get a pass to leave the post at any time during our eight weeks of boot training—another lesson learned.

Tents Were Cold

Training in the middle of winter was tough duty, especially since we were housed in tents. The stoves emitted a plume of black, smelly smoke from partially burned coal that hung in a low, acrid cloud over the camp. Our fire went out at night—partly because the stove wouldn’t bank and partly because we didn’t want to breathe the fumes as we slept. At times it was so cold we would spread our issue of clothing on top of our blankets for added warmth.

Squad Leader

My records revealed I had had two years of ROTC, so I was assigned a squad leader roll. I had few expectations for accomplishment, but I thought it would be satisfying to march and drill as a member of a closely synchronized group. My junior high gym class could easily have outperformed this bunch of sad sacks. The squad leaders were the worst of the bunch. Thinking I would be relieved of my leadership position, I told the platoon sergeant what I thought of the sloppy performance of the platoon in general and the other squad leaders in particular. But, alas, all of the other squad leaders were sacked and I was retained. It was a lesson I wished I had learned some other way.

Agony on the Firing Range

The rifle range was inherently dangerous, and safety procedures were rigidly enforced by the instructors. We realized that any one of us could be accidentally shot were in not for a carefully designed and supervised system, but the rigidity was carried beyond safety considerations. For example, the requirement to maintain the school position when firing was also strictly supervised. For most guys it was not a problem, but for me, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t assume the proper prone position. Legs were supposed to be spread, toes pointed outward, and heels on the ground. Perhaps because my legs were bowed I could not force my heels to the ground. For the life of me I couldn’t see the relationship of heels on the ground to the ability to shoot straight, but the drill instructor hounded me. When I continued to fire with my heels raised, he stood on them. The torque on my knees hurt so much I could hardly see the target, but I squeezed off a clip in rapid fire. It was obvious that the instructors were not motivated to teach, but to enforce. Their approach was confined to a blind obedience to uniformity with no allowance for any variation even if shooting skills might be improved. After that I never tried to do well on the firing range and often shot at other guys’ targets. Needless to say my uniform was never adorned with a Sharpshooter or Marksman Metal.

Echoes of My Mind

We spent many hours on the rifle range, and the singsong litany of the firing range officer (or whatever his title was) still rings in my memory:

READY ON THE LEFT. READY ON THE RIGHT. READY ON THE FIRING LINE. THE FLAG IS UP. THE FLAG IS WAVING. THE FLAG IS DOWN. COMMENCE... But before he could complete the command with the word FIRING, someone would pull a trigger, Blam!

OK, who fired that shot? Get that man’s name. You will never, ever fire until the entire command is given.

Then he would go through the litany again and he may or may not get to the final command, COMMENCE FIRING, without another violation. It got to be a game whether he realized it or not. Someone would always try to anticipate the exact moment of the final command, trying to be the first to fire, and if the officer hesitated, even slightly, a shot would ring out.

We would usually begin our firing exercises 100 yards from our targets. After practicing at that distance our sights would be pretty well adjusted for accuracy, and the firing range officer would then shout, POLICE UP THE BRASS AND MOVE BACK TO THE 200-YARD LINE. So we would pick up all the expended shells lying on the ground and walk back to the more distant firing line. The command to move was reminiscent of battle scenes in the movies, in which superior forces on one side pushed back the defenders on the other, sending them in a wild scurry for cover. Our targets were not aggressive, so we leisurely retreated, but I always had the feeling we should have been running.

HAA!

Another sound that clearly resonates in my memory is the aggressive exhalation we made with each thrust of the bayonet. When practicing hand-to-hand combat we were taught to accompany each thrust or parry with a very loud HAA! And if there were a series of thrusts and parries there would be a concomitant HAA!, HAA!, HAA!, HAA!, HAA! This tactic was designed to scare the hell out of the enemy. In order to score well, you had to use macho, bass tones; tenor expressions meant you were as good as dead.

One day we were learning how to disarm an enemy with a rifle and bayonet. Those of us acting as defenders were weaponless. We were shown how to slap the bayonet to the side when the enemy made a thrust. A drill sergeant called a trainee to the center of the circle in order to demonstrate. The private timidly poked at the sergeant. No, no! Come at me like you mean it. When the soldier gave a determined thrust, the sergeant slapped at the side of the bayonet. But he missed. He dropped to his knees with the bayonet through the palm of his hand. We learned a lot that day.

Night Firing Fiasco

One shooting range was designed solely for firing in the dark. The purpose of the exercise was to demonstrate how soldiers in fox holes along a line of defense could effectively lay down a pattern of fire that would impede enemy advancement. Without some organized method some areas would probably be missed while others would be fired upon more heavily. The solution was simple. In front of each fox hole two upright sticks were set in the ground a foot away. The space between the sticks defined an area of responsibility. By firing only within the small arc defined by the sticks you could cover your assigned area even though you could not see. The sticks, of course, were set up in the daylight so the field of fire for all fox holes was coordinated.

When my company engaged in this exercise, it was a cool, winter night that may have been pleasant were it not for a biting wind, so in addition to warm clothing we wore ponchos to break its force.

Sandy soil dominated every nook and cranny at Fort Jackson, and since the wind was exceedingly strong, it was impossible to escape the blinding combination of wind and sand. We huddled together in silence with our eyes shut, waiting for our respective turns to drop into a fox hole and fire. The wind continued to howl and the blasting sand got into everything—including my rifle. Finally an officer said, OK, soldier, drop in the hole and squeeze ‘em off.

I pleaded, "But, sir, my