Fort Dix: A Post-War Story

If I were able to publish a further edition of On Point, this would be the final chapter. 

I returned home from Vietnam on 15 October 1968 with six months left on my time in the US Army, and with a month's accumulated leave to spend in my hometown of Freeport, Illinois. After refueling in Anchorage, we landed where we had taken off a year earlier, at Travis Air Force Base outside Oakland, California. From there I flew commercial (civilian) to O'Hare International in Chicago, where my mother and her best friend, whose husband had been at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed, picked me up. I sat in the backseat anxiously anticipating glimpses of my hometown as we approached from the east on US Route 20. 

For the previous year I had been in the reemerging jungle, rubber plantations, and rice paddies of what was then South Vietnam, and it took a while to become readjusted to life in my hometown. One would think that I had only been gone for a year, and it wouldn't be all that difficult, but my mind, body, and soul had been in Vietnam with no contact with anyone I knew except for that which came through the US mail, and only my mother and my ex-girlfriend's mom wrote to me while I was at war (my girlfriend had broken up with me two months into my tour). Further, the only human contact I had during that year was with fellow soldiers in my platoon, and all my thoughts for that year were about my role in that war, and most of my activities involved preparation for company- or platoon-sized operations during which battle with the enemy was a constant factor. It was where my head was.

So here I was, plucked from from the world of Charlie Company, 1/5 (Mechanized) Infantry, 25th Infantry Division, and a little over 24-hours later, I was alone in the living room of what had once been our family's home--only my mother lived there now, and she was at work. The phone rang.

I had not spoken on a telephone for a year, but I had sent and received messages over military two-way radios on multiple daily occasions over the course of the past year. Our most common radio had a handset that resembled that of a telephone, but this was different. At first I wasn't sure what to do, then I remembered. I picked up the handset and put it to my ear, and said, "Hello." A voice on the other end said, "Oh, hi Roger. I heard you were home. Is your mother there?" I wasn't sure how to proceed, but did so with the instincts of a soldier. "Negative, over."

Over the next week or so I rode my Honda Super Hawk motorcycle to town, and visited the old hangouts, looking for social contact--people I knew. In one place a high school classmate approached me. "Roger, I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"I'm in the Army. I just returned from Vietnam." Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Later, while conversing with another high school classmate, the subject of the war came up. I don't remember how it happened, but that's where my mind was, and I may have made a comment relating to my experiences in the war when something reminded me of it. My friend said, "The real heroes are in Canada."

The implication was that since the war was so unpopular, the socially acceptable course of action would have been to dodge the draft. In other words, I should have gone to Canada rather than reporting for military service.

Not all of my month's leave was like that. I also reconnected with friends who didn't mind where I had been, and the month passed enjoyably and all too quickly.

I received orders assigning me to a basic training unit at Fort Dix, New Jersey. I was to report 30 days after arriving home, which was 15 November 1968. I don't remember how I got to Fort Dix, but I most likely flew to Philadelphia, then took a bus to the fort, 30-miles to the northeast across the Delaware River. I found my unit, Company B, 5th Battalion of the 2d Training Brigade, commonly referred to as B-5-2. A group of trainees (they wouldn't be called soldiers until they graduated from basic training) were gathered at the building's entrance. One of them spotted the sergeant stripes on my uniform as I approached, and called, "Make way!" The young men sucked up against the walls to make room as I passed among them. I was inwardly amused, and thought to myself, hey, it's just me, guys.

I reported in, and was assigned to the 1st Platoon as an assistant platoon sergeant. The first couple of days I watched and helped out whenever and wherever the platoon sergeant wanted or needed me. The company was about halfway through the eight-week training program. The platoon sergeant was an E-6, staff sergeant, and was due to get out of the Army shortly after this group of soldiers graduated from basic training.

Over the course of the next few weeks, the company commander, a first lieutenant, searched for the next 1st Platoon Sergeant. I suppose he watched me and the rest of the cadre members, looking for someone whom he felt had the right leadership skills.

One day he assigned me the evening formation, which was held before the evening meal. He gave me a clipboard with announcements I was to read to the company, and told me that the order of chow was 4-1-3-2, based on the results of that morning's barracks inspection. The 4th platoon won the inspection, and its trainees were rewarded by going into chow first. Serving 120 men, one at a time, took a while, and the rest of the company would wait their turn in the order they finished the morning's barracks inspection in a single-file line extending outside the mess hall. On this day the 2d platoon ate last, and stood in line between 30 to 45 minutes.

The company's four platoons were in formation as I walked out of the barracks and took my place in front of them. I called them to attention, then had the platoon guides (trainees who acted as junior cadre members with leadership responsibilities for their respective platoons) report the status of their platoons to me. It was a way of taking attendance. The response we wanted to hear was, "All present or accounted for." Some trainees may have been on sick leave or on KP, and therefore "accounted for."

I ordered the company to stand "at ease," then read the announcements from the clipboard. The trainees knew how they had finished in that morning's inspection, and they knew the order of chow. But I announced, "The order of chow will be determined by the order of which each platoon successfully completes 25 pushups." I noticed disruption in the ranks, but ignored it. "Platoon guides, take charge of your platoons and execute the assigned exercises." This was met by several platoon guides saying, 'But, but Sergeant. . ." But then they noticed that one or more platoons had already begun pushing out the prescribed exercises, so they hurriedly got their platoons down into the front-lean-and-rest position, and completed the pushups.

When they were through and back on their feet, I loudly asked, "Which platoon came in first?" They responded, "We did! We did!" I yelled, "I can't hear you!" and the sound of 120 young men yelling at the top of their lungs filled the company street and the area between our barracks and the next one.

When they finally settled down, I announced, "I don't care which platoon came in first. The order of chow is 4-1-3-2. Platoon guides, take charge of your platoons and move them to the mess hall. Company, Atten-hut! Dismissed."

I didn't know it, but the company commander had been inside the barracks with a window open, listening and observing as I held the evening formation. Apparently he liked what he saw, because a few days later he announced that I would be the next 1st platoon sergeant.

As I walked alone to the mess hall I found myself behind several trainees unaware of my presence. One of them said, "That Sergeant Hayes is alright."

Most of the other cadre members were married, and lived off post. A few of us who were single had rooms in the barracks. Mine was near the 1st Platoon's bay, a large room containing bunk beds for the platoon's trainees. Between my room and the platoon bay was the platoon's latrine. I became the only platoon sergeant who lived in the barracks, which meant I had more contact with the members of my platoon than the others. I was also the only one who had served overseas, and of course, the only one who had been in combat in Vietnam. My rows of ribbons contained more decorations than the others, and I was the only one with a Combat Infantryman's Badge (CIB), which was the only decoration worn on all uniforms including the daily fatigues we wore (see photo below). Another difference was that I was the only platoon sergeant who was not a drill instructor. Drill instructor school took six or eight weeks, and I wouldn't be around too long thereafter. As such, I did not wear the drill sergeant's Smokey Bear hat, and from a distance I more closely resembled a trainee than a member of the cadre, but when my hat was off, it became apparent that I had more hair. Up close my CIB set me apart. And I was capable of doing everything the drill sergeants did.

At the conclusion of the training cycle that was in session when I arrived, my former platoon sergeant left the Army, and I was on my own for the next training cycle. The next group of trainees arrived the following Sunday, and those assigned to the 1st Platoon found bunks in the platoon's bay. They numbered about 35 young men. The first night I sat them on the floor of our platoon's bay in a large circle, and took a place in the circle with them. I introduced myself, and told them I'd be their platoon sergeant. Then I spoke of the training they would receive, letting them know what to expect over the course of the next eight weeks. I told them that I saw my role as helping them make the transition from civilian to soldier. Then I opened the floor--no pun intended--for questions, one of the first of which was, "Sergeant, how old are you?" I was 22, only a year or so older than most of the members of my platoon, and younger than some.

Fort Dix, New Jersey

I taught my platoon basic military concepts and lessons including recognition of the various ranks, how to stand at attention, when and how to salute officers, close-order drill, marching, how to polish their brass and boots, etc. I reinforced formal lessons and training the company received, and helped them with bayonet training. We marched a lot. I showed them how to clean the barracks and our platoon's latrine--make it so clean you can eat out of it--and although at first we didn't do well in the company inspections, we gradually improved, and came in first more often. On several occasions, perhaps because no-one else wanted to, I marched the entire company from our barracks to the rifle range, a distance of several miles through the New Jersey winter.

Every day offered long hours and challenges, but we made it through. I was more of a coach than the type of drill instructor one sees portrayed in the movies. I didn't yell at them, berate them, or belittle them. One morning as we were gathering for the morning formation before breakfast, I noticed that one of my trainees had not shaved. "Why didn't you shave this morning?" "I didn't have time, Sergeant." The formation would begin in a few moments, and I knew it would last at least ten minutes. "Can you shave and be back here in ten minutes?" "Yes, Sergeant." "Okay, go." Cleanly shaven, he slipped back into formation a few minutes later. If the company commander or first sergeant had spotted his unshaved face later in the day, he would have been in trouble. I gave him the opportunity to sidestep that outcome and the punishment it would have led to. That was my style, and the members of my platoon appreciated it. 

On the day the company graduated an event occurred that will stay in my memory the rest of my life. The ceremony was held in a gymnasium or a similar large building. I was assigned to be a part of the color guard that posted the flag, during which I wore a chrome helmet and marched with an M14. I was to report early for coordination with the other members of the color guard and to make sure we knew what to do and where to be, and didn't get a chance to say good-bye to my platoon, men I'd worked with for two months, and for whom I had developed quite a fondness.

Their wives or girlfriends, and parents were waiting for them at the conclusion of the ceremony. And I was still with the color guard as the events ended. I walked to the back room to replace the chrome helmet and rifle in their locker, thinking that I had seen the members of my platoon for the last time. I went out a back door that provided the most direct route back to the company barracks and my room therein.

As I closed the door someone behind me called, "Platoon, atten-hut!" I turned to see my platoon standing in formation at attention with the platoon guide executing a perfect salute. They had delayed their reunions with their families and loved ones, and figuring out which door I'd come out of, had come to pay their respects and say good-bye. I was flabbergasted. I shook each of their hands and wished them well wherever the Army would take them.

The war in Vietnam was still going on, although President Nixon had implemented "Vietnamization," which involved turning over more of the actual combat to South Vietnamese forces. The war was beginning to wind down, but American soldiers fought in Vietnam for the next three years, and I assume that the majority of my platoon served there, and I'm sure at least some of them died there.

Despite receiving twenty-five re-enlistment talks administered by the first lieutenant who served as my company commander, I left the Army two years to the day after being drafted. I became a civilian on 7 May 1969. Combat troops served in Vietnam until 1972, and the United States provided air and other support for South Vietnamese forces until 1975 when Congress refused to further fund our efforts in southeast Asia. Two months later South Vietnam fell to the North Vietnamese Army. For years I had felt that I still belonged in Vietnam, not knowing that my battalion had been reassigned to Korea in 1971. The pull of my old unit ended when combat troops were withdrawn in 1972. I was no longer needed there; my war was over.

Purchased at the Fort Dix PX in 1969

Winter Birding: Carlyle Lake

This is Carlyle Lake in Illinois where I worked as a park ranger, my first job out of college, and a very good one at that. It led to a career with the US Army Corps of Engineers, first at the lake, then in the district office in downtown St. Louis.

At present the Corps is releasing a large amount of water through the dam. That creates a boiling action that brings fish to the surface where they are easy pickings for gulls that spend the winter at the lake. After grabbing a meal, they fly to the ice north of the dam to rest, and do so in large numbers.

Most of these, around 99%, are the numerous Ring-billed Gulls, but a few other species are present, such as Herring Gulls, the next most common species. Others migrate through or irrupt from areas north, particularly the Great Lakes during harsh winters. A Herring Gull is seen below--the dark, slightly larger bird, which is an immature. Adults more closely resemble Ring-billed Gulls. 

 

A more infrequent visitor is the Lesser Black-backed Gull, which winter off the Atlantic coast and the Great Lakes. When the Great Lakes freeze some of them, as well as other species, venture south and find Carlyle Lake. Here's a Black-backed Gull resting among the hundreds of Ring-billeds. (I like the gull flying through the foreground.)

 Snow Geese:  Over the course of the past decade or so, thousands of Snow Geese have wintered at and near the lake. Two flocks of Snow Geese are seen in this photo, one closer and the other more in the distance, which shows up as a horizontal white stripe on the ice. Shortly after taking this, some of the geese in the farther flock took to the air, and made known their enormous population. The camera captured less than a third or fourth of the flock.

From a closer vantage point the next day. Here I was close enough to hear them. We've heard Snow Geese honk as they fly over, but it came as a surprise that they do that as well while resting on the water or ice. It sounded as though all of them were honking at once.

Another species increasing in numbers at the lake are these White-fronted Geese, which appear a uniform dark at a distance. They've previously been seen in small numbers mixed with other species of geese, but now they appear in flocks.

White-fronted Geese mixed with Canada Geese. The White-fronted are the ones with orange legs and feet. Some in the center have their heads tucked.

Chasing Rare Birds:  The federal property around Carlyle Lake is an island of wildlife habitat in an ocean of agricultural fields. Because of that it's a good spot to find lots of species of birds including some occasional visitors or rare ones.

Northern Shrike:  A friend reported seeing this species along a saddle dam on the east side of the lake, so I went to investigate. It was an easy find; the bird was perched at the top of a small tree silhouetted against the sky. Hard to miss. It was a lifer for me--a bird species I'd not previously seen.

Harris's Sparrow:  While on an Audubon outing, I spotted a bird that flushed and landed in the branches of a small tree. It remained there for several minutes, giving us a good view. But it took a while to figure out what it was, or rather what I think it was. It was obviously a sparrow but different than the ones I'm used to seeing. The closest I could come in a field guide was a first-winter Harris's Sparrow. I was unfamiliar with the first-winter plumage of this species, so wasn't sure what to look for. Such are the challenges of birding.

 From Sibley Guide to Birds:

And another illustration from National Geographic's Field Guide to the Birds of North America. The plumage version in question is the bottom one labeled immature.

But following the process of elimination I concluded that the sparrow I'd seen must have been a Harris's. Several attempts to relocate the bird failed, but a week later I received a phone call from a friend who reported that he was in sight of a Harris's Sparrow. He wasn't far away, and I joined him. Sure enough, an adult, winter plumage Harris's hopped out of the shrub he'd been observing. That sighting strengthened my conviction that it was indeed a Harris's Sparrow I'd seen the week before. It's possible that several are in the area that have not yet been observed.

And I was able to take my granddaughter out to see the Snow Geese, which are still putting on a show in huge numbers of individuals. On the way to see the geese, we passed the spillway for the lake, and spotted a Bald Eagle sitting near the top of a tree not far from a parking lot. I mounted my scope on my car window, and Granddaughter watched an adult Bald Eagle for about fifteen minutes, loving every moment.

Here's the eagle she was watching--taken through the spotting scope:

The Bald Eagle population has recovered nicely in the past few decades. Autumn and I counted about 30 of them over the course of an hour, most of which were on the ice out in the middle of the lake, not far from areas of open water.

Out My Kitchen Window

Understanding Nature:  My favorite quote from Henry David Thoreau is, "Of course I am well traveled; I know my backyard intimately." I like to think he was a referring to nature--that if one understands what goes on biologically in one's backyard, then the entire natural world comes into focus. 

Project FeederWatch:  I am participating in Project FeederWatch, a program operated by Cornell University's Lab of Ornithology. It involves counting the largest number of individuals of each bird species seen at any one time over a two-day period each week. Participating volunteers pick their own count days, and mine are Fridays and Saturdays.

I have several feeders in my backyard, and I count species that come to them as well as others that are attracted to plantings in my yard. Flyover birds or those seen outside my backyard are not included. I'm relatively new to the program, but it offers a fun way to watch nature in one's backyard.

Over the past few weeks I've photographed critters from my kitchen window. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

A Cottontail Rabbit at the base of a Rough-leafed Dogwood at the side of my yard. Violets, a pretty decent ground cover, grow thick along a 15-foot strip along the side of my yard, so I don't mow there. It adds a bit of wildlife habitat to my yard. It's a good place for bunnies to hide.

And a male Northern Flicker that posed on the side of a tree while probing presumably for insect eggs stashed in the the bark:

A Red-breasted Nuthatch (left) compared with a White-breasted Nuthatch (right) taken last year:

A Carolina Wren planning to grab a sunflower seed:

And last spring an immature Robin that flattened itself on the railing of my deck:

Sharp-shinned and Cooper's Hawks have frequented my neighborhood recently. This "Sharpie" is watching activity at my feeder, hoping to pick off a meal--their chief source of food is birds.

This Kestrel was first spotted on a wire behind my neighbor's house, and later, in better light, on the top of a utility pole at the rear corner of my yard.

Another, front view of an adult Sharp-shinned Hawk watching the birds at my feeder: 

And a Cooper's Hawk, taken 9 January, 2015