The 3d Group was commonly referred to by its members as the "Third Herd." Sergeant Major Marvin Wells was my B Team Sergeant Major and Clarence Avery was the Company Sergeant Major. Specialist Fifth Class Harold Dreblow, who had also just returned stateside from Delta, was on my A Team. George Hill was our Team Daddy [Team Sergeant] and Staff Sergeant Dale Wallace was my diddy-dumdum-diddy [radio operator]. Those are the only men that I can remember right now. 

Shortly after I joined the 3d Herd, rumors started spreading that Delta Projects had been wiped out in a mission into the An Lao Valley and that Charging Charlie had also been wounded.  Delta lost quite a few good men that day, but they were not "wiped out."

About a week after this rumor began , I met a buddy that I hadn’t seen in quite a while and he looked surprised at first and then he told me that he had heard that I had "bought the farm" while I was assigned to Delta. Once again I informed the rumor mongers that I was still among the living. That was the second time that a rumor had me KIA [killed in action].

SF were rumor mongers, they were every bit as bad as any woman that I had ever met. Spreading rumors was a sport with some of those guys and they would deliberately start a false rumor just to see if they would recognize it when they heard it again. You soon learned that rumors were strictly a source of entertainment and not a source of information.

In February 1966, the US Army, in all of its glory and efficiency, scheduled a battalion of recruits for BCT [Basic Combat Training] at Fort Bragg. Somebody in that Great Puzzle Palace in Arlington, Virginia [the Pentagon] suddenly realized that there was no BCT unit at Fort Bragg. What to do? No sweat, call JFKSWC! An SF soldier was expected to be a soldier, technician, leader, and instructor. So that’s who they got.

The Third Herd got the job of training those recruits. We only had two weeks to create a BCT Battalion, fill it with cadre and trainee committees. find and prepare the necessary billets and be ready to rock and roll as soon as the first trainee stepped off the first bus. We did it with time to spare. We set up shop in the wooden World War II barracks in the ROTC [Reserve Officer’s Training Corps] Area which was near Bragg Boulevard about in the center of the Fort Bragg garrison. A Company provided the cadre and B Company provided instructors. Yours truly became the Drill Sergeant for 4^th Platoon, A Company of the BCT Battalion and I picked Dreblow for my assistant. Picking Dreblow for the job wasn’t difficult, he was the only one to volunteer. If Dreblow hadn’t volunteered, I would have picked him anyway. The rest of our team went on a paid eight week vacation for the most part. The Team Leader popped in every day and sometimes the Team Sergeant would be with him. He just got in our way, but he just couldn’t seem to stay away. Actually, I felt sorry for them. Dreblow and I were the only two that had a job for the next eight weeks. The rest of the team had to invent something to do.

Personally, I would rather work hard than be bored to death or try to invent something to keep me busy. Fortunately, in the early SF if you had a job, you did it and when you were finished, you were released. But I soon discovered that being a Drill Sergeant is a very good way to work yourself to death.

No one ever took that job more serious than I did. Maybe I took it too serious. I knew that some of those kids would see combat, but there was no way for me to know which ones would be going into combat. So I promised myself that they would all get everything that I had to give. If they didn’t make it back from Vietnam alive, I didn’t want their ghost pointing an accusing finger at me. I meant to be the Drill Sergeant that I would want my son to have. In other words, those recruits were about to catch hell. Basic training is to a soldier what the first six years of life is to a human. They don’t get any better after that; they just get older and bigger. My troops would get a good foundation in soldiering.

Our recruits arrived about 2100 hours. There has to be a 2d lieutenant somewhere up in that Great Puzzle Palace in Arlington, Virginia that plans how and when recruits will be moved. Recruits always seem to depart in the dark and they always seem to arrive in the dark. How that second looie manages that is still a mystery to me.

As my fifty recruits drug their duffle bags and chubby little asses through the barracks door, I figured that somebody must have sent me the 4-Fs [medical and mental rejects] by mistake. Those guys looked absolutely pitiful. Every single one of them gaped when they saw me awaiting them. I instructed them to, "Find a bunk, put your bags on it and then gather in the first floor squad bay for a briefing." They were still gaping at me when they gathered for the briefing. Then it dawned on me why they were gaping; I wasn’t wearing a Drill Sergeant’s "Smoky The Bear" hat, I was wearing a Green Beret. I told them, "Don’t sweat it, you have not been drafted into Special Forces." They breathed a sigh of relief. My welcome speech went something like this:

"I am Sergeant Valentine, I am your new mother and your new father all rolled up into one. During the next eight weeks we will become great buddies, so you may always call me by my first name, ‘Sergeant!’ You will respond to any thing that I say with ‘Yes Sergeant’, ‘No Sergeant’ or ‘Clear Sergeant’ and there better be damn few, ‘No Sergeants.’

"If I say ‘shit’, you will squat! You will not ask what color or how much, you will just drop your pants, squat, and start grunting! If I say ‘jump’, you will jump up into the air and when I say come down, you may then come back down to earth and not one second before then. Until then, you will stay up. I don’t care how you do it, just do it! When I say ‘Fall In’, you will disappear and immediately reappear standing in four ranks like four rows of corn on our company street in front of and facing the front door of this barracks. When I say ‘Fall Out’, you will again disappear and immediately reappear inside this barracks in your assigned squad bay.

"While you are with me, you will do things that you thought you would never be able to do. We’re going to run until you can’t run anymore and then we’re going to walk. We’re going to walk until you can’t walk anymore and then we’re going to crawl. We’re going to crawl until you can’t crawl anymore and then I’m going to pick you up by your collar, put my jump boot knee-deep up your ass and we’re going to start all over again.

"If you see anyone who even remotely resembles a soldier, they will outrank you and until you learn to identify different ranks you will also refer to them as ‘Sergeant.’ You can survive calling an officer a sergeant, even a female officer, but you may not survive, if you call the wrong sergeant a ‘Sir.’ Its a matter of tradition.

"Some of you will eventually be assigned to the infantry and some of you will be sent to Vietnam. If you want to survive Vietnam, you will keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth shut, and stick close to your sergeant. Regardless of where you go in this here now army, if you expect to survive this hitch with an honorable discharge, you better develop a good sense of humor because before your tour of duty is over, you will definitely need one.

"This here now army will provide for your every need. They will provide you with three hots and a flop, all the brand new clothes and equipment that you can carry, maybe more, and in a couple of days, they will even issue each of you a brand new girl friend. You will give your new girl friend plenty of tender-loving care. Her name is ‘Miss Fourteen.’ Miss Fourteen weighs about nine pounds and she is air-cooled, gas-operated, and magazine-fed. You will tend to Miss Fourteen’s every need before you tend to your own needs. If you take good care of Miss Fourteen, she will take good care of you and you will take good care of her. You may even qualify to sleep with your new girl friend. If you want to sleep with Miss Fourteen, all you have to do is drop her. You will never drop Miss Fourteen. You will never insult Miss Fourteen by referring to her as a "gun." Miss Fourteen is not a gun and she is not a toy. Miss Fourteen is a weapon and she was made for only one purpose — to kill humans under the worst conditions imaginable.

"You will be living in very close quarters while you are in this here now army. No funky asses will be tolerated. You will shower, shave, and change your underwear daily. If you didn’t shave before today, you will start shaving your peach fuzz tomorrow morning and you will shave the first thing every morning henceforth. You will get a GI haircut and you will get another one every Friday for as long as you are in this here now army. You will brush your teeth at least twice daily, morning and night and because we are going to become such good friends, I am going to pitch a GI party for you every Friday night." [A GI Party is a very detailed cleaning of the barracks inside and out.]

"You came here from all over this country and from all different cultures, but let me make something crystal clear to everyone right now. In this here now army, there is only one damn color and that is olive drab. In this here now army, the lowest form of life is a "barracks thief." If you have sticky fingers, you better damn well keep them to yourself. If you catch a barracks thief in the act and that clumsy bastard has not yet fallen down the stairs, don’t even bother to turn him in to me because I will not accept custody of that Son of a bitch. Barracks thieves will not be tolerated in my damn army. You will adapt to this here now army and you will adapt quickly. You will not cause me any trouble. If you cause me any trouble, your ass will be grass and I will be the damn lawn mower and that is most definitely a threat!

"You will write a letter or postcard home before the end of this week and give them your current address so they will know that I have not, as yet, killed you. If you crawled out from under a damn rock, borrow an address from a buddy. Each of you will show me a stamped and addressed letter or postcard before you drop it in the mailbox.

"No food is allowed in the barracks. No food means exactly that, no damn food of any kind. Not one damn peanut or candy bar will be brought into this barracks. When you write that letter home, tell them not to send you food. If you receive food in the mail, it will be eaten right then and there. So get what you want and pass the rest around to your buddies because you will not put any food in your wall locker or foot locker. You will work very hard to make me happy. If I am not happy, you most definitely will not be happy and you may also interpret that as a damn threat!"

After my heart-warming welcome, I gave them their new address, posted it on the platoon bulletin board and then I demonstrated on one of their bunks how to make a GI bunk the army way and then I tore it up again. The guy whose bunk I had used thought he was going to hop right into it. No such luck. After all, fair is fair. Then I showed them how to roll their mattress and fold their blankets on laundry day. Naturally, after each demonstration I had to ask, "Is that Clear?" and naturally they never responded, "Clear Sergeant" loud enough to please me until they had finally rattled those old, wooden windows. In the meantime, my A Team Leader, the Company Commander, and the Battalion Commander had somehow managed to squeeze into the squad bay behind my troops. I guess they had monitored my entire welcoming speech and the bed-making demonstration.

While the recruits were making their beds, the Battalion Commander walked up to one recruit and asked him where he was from. The nervous, bug-eyed recruit jumped into the best position of attention he could muster, which was pitiful, and replied, "Jackson, Mississippi, Sergeant!" The Colonel managed a smile, then he turned around and left. He was followed closely by the two junior officers.

The next morning, I awoke my sleeping beauties at 0530 hours and got them, the barracks, and the area around our barracks ready for inspection. The mess hall was adjacent to our barracks and the platoons normally rotated so each platoon had a chance to eat first and also to eat last. The sidewalk into the front door of the mess hall passed beneath a pull up bar. Each of my recruits were required to do ten pull ups before he entered the mess hall. Even though I knew my ladies couldn’t do ten "perfect" pull ups, I demanded it anyway. If a recruit could not do all ten pull ups, he had to do ten pushups for each pull up that he owed me. If he couldn’t do that many pushups, he had to switch to sit ups instead. Meanwhile, guys from other platoons were passing them by because their drill sergeants did not require them to do the same. After the platoon finally finished breakfast, we fell them in for Work Call and I inspected them. Naturally the first time, it takes several tries before they can clear the barracks fast enough and you have mass confusion on the street. This requires you to explain in crystal clear terms exactly how to fall in.

When I finally got that bunch of rejects lined up to my satisfaction, I went through the ranks for a closer look at each recruit. One kid was so damn slow when they were practicing falling in and falling out, I climbed all over him. When I came in front of him, I noticed he looked as if he were in pain and I asked him about it. He told me, "Sergeant, I was in a car wreck enroute to the induction center. I went straight from the scene of the accident to the induction center. I told them why I was late and that I was hurt. They drafted me and shipped me here anyway." That was over a week earlier and he had never seen a doctor. Dreblow escorted him to the dispensary and he never returned to the platoon.

The next recruit in line had one shoulder higher than the other one, in fact it was up almost to his ear. I told him, "Square your shoulders soldier! You look like you have polio." He said, "I did have polio when I was a kid Sergeant and I’ve been like this ever since." The next guy in line was just tall enough to get into the army and as wide as he was tall. Unfortunately, the only muscles he had appeared to be located between his ears. He truly was a butterball and this became his nickname from then on. When I said that they looked like rejects, I wasn’t kidding. Dreblow and I really had our job cut out for us.

During their first week, all of the recruits took a PT Test. As I recall, it consisted of a one mile run, pushups, 40 meter crawl, sit ups, and traversing the monkey bars. My platoon had the lowest individual score and the lowest platoon average score in the entire battalion. It didn’t surprise me a bit. A blind man could see that they were in terrible physical condition and I’ve always had a keen grasp of the obvious.

However, I never once told them that they were rated as the worst platoon in the entire battalion because I did not want them to think of themselves as the worst. The average score of the next lowest platoon was way above our score. We had several guys that couldn’t even jog for an entire mile, much less run a full mile on the test. Hell, Butterball couldn’t even walk a mile without stopping to catch his breath.

In addition to the daily physical training, we made them take the tough portions of tre PT Test almost every evening while they awaited their turn to eat supper. To help this along, I put them permanently at the end of the chow line so while the other platoons were eating supper or standing in line waiting to eat, my ladies were taking the PT Test. My recruits didn’t love that idea, but I wasn’t after love, I was molding soldiers. They still had to pass under the pull up bar before they could eat. They dearly hated those pull up bars, but they were all chow hounds and they had to eat. After they had ran the bayonet course during their regular training, we also ran them through the bayonet course on the evenings they weren’t practicing the PT Test. Some readers may think that I had suddenly sprouted horns and a long pointed tail. Some of my recruits thought that. For all I knew, some of those kids may have been heading for jump school and they wouldn’t be like I had been — they would be ready for it.

During the next eight weeks, I called my recruits lots of things, 'Cruits, Rejects, and  Ladies," but I never called them a "soldier" or "soldiers." All of the other platoons started singing Jody Cadence while marching. Mine were never allowed to sing Jody Cadence. I told them, "When you look like soldiers and act like soldiers, I will refer to you as soldiers and then and only then will you sing cadence." Those guys worked night and day. As Drill Sergeant, I awoke at 0330 hours so I could be there to meet with my company commander and first sergeant, then I awoke my troops and finally I put my troops to bed at taps which is 2200 hours. Usually, I got to bed at about 2330 hours, so I averaged about four hours of sleep a day.

When everyone else was taking a ten minute break, I gave them additional instruction, sometimes in self-defense. What little they were getting in their Hand-To-Hand Combat Classes wasn’t worth a shit anyway. They were allowed to relax and smoke during those breaks. From my point of view, we were in a desperate situation. We only had eight weeks to turn these Four-Fs into "basic" soldiers and they didn’t seem able to do anything right and Butterball did the poorest of the bunch. Everything came hard to Butterball, but I have to give him credit, he tried.

As the weeks passed, Butterball gradually began to lose some weight, but he still couldn’t stay in step. The whole platoon was so poor at dismounted drill, I stopped using conventional commands and methods of instruction one day and resorted to the "Old Grady Drill." When you are using the Old Grady Drill, if the leader doesn’t precede a command with the words "Old Grady Says," the troops must ignore that command. If the troops obeyed any command that was not preceded by "Old Grady Says," I required them to drop out of formation and double time around the parade field until they found a rock at least one inch in diameter. They then were required to place that rock in their left front trouser pocket where it remained until supper time. They had to show me each rock and it had to meet my approval before they could put it in their pocket. If you put very many of those rocks in your pocket, they tend to rub your thigh raw as you march. It only takes four or five rocks.

After I had explained the new rules, we began marching again. "Platoon attention! Old Grady didn’t call you to attention, you dumb asses. Get a rock! Old Grady says, ‘Platoon attention!’ Forward march! Get a damn rock! Old Grady says, ‘Forward March.’ Old Grady says, ‘Right Flank, march!’ Old Grady says, ‘Left Flank, march!’ Old Grady says, ‘Rear, March!’ Rear, March! Get a damn rock dumb ass!" and so it went for about two hours.

Several of my recruits had both trousers pockets stuffed with rocks long before we stopped for chow call that afternoon. After only one day of the Old Grady Drills, they began to improve. The next day when it came time for dismounted drill, I advised my ladies, "First we will try marching without the ‘Old Grady Drill’. If you do okay, we will dispense with the ‘Old Grady Drill’." They must have been strongly motivated to keep those rocks out of their pocket because they marched almost one hundred percent better than the day before. Even Butterball began to stay in step and instantly obey the commands. I couldn’t believe my eyes. You could see a grimace here and there as we marched along when their empty fatigues brushed against their sore legs and I could only imagine how raw their thighs were from those rocks the day before. Every step they took with that sore leg encouraged them to stay mentally alert. Grimace or no grimace, they were in step and wheeled about, halted, stopped or turned at my every command. Just like real soldiers — well, almost. Everybody, but Butterball.

After three weeks, my wife, Fran , pitched a temper tantrum because I wasn’t spending any time with her. She demanded that I get out of the army or at least get out of Special Forces. I told her, "I was married to SF when I met you and I’ll still be married to SF after you’re gone." Sometimes, I can be a real shit head. With that I packed my gear and moved into a cadre room in our platoon barracks.

When those recruits saw me move into the barracks, you would have thought that someone had just shot their pet dog. You’ve never seen such Sad Sacks. Up to this point, I had never eaten anything in front of the troops nor had I drank any water in their presence. The only thing that they had ever seen me put in my mouth was black coffee and a little chewing tobacco.

My first night in the barracks, I was sitting on the commode in the latrine and happened to glance up and the entrance way to the latrine was packed with recruits and all of them were gaping at me. I asked them, "What the hell are you doing?" and one kid replied, "That’s the first human thing that we’ve seen you do, sergeant. We didn’t think that you were really a human being."

About this time, I had to go before the promotion board. The Commander of A Company, 3d Group interviewed me. During this time, he was also the Commander of the Basic Training Battalion. At one point in the interview, he asked me, "Sergeant Valentine, what is your most rewarding assignment?" I told him, "Sir, I know that you want me to say that training these guys is my most rewarding assignment. If I could just see any damn improvement, that’s what I would say. As it stands right now, I have to say my previous assignment was my most rewarding one to date." So I forgot about buying any new stripes. After that, I didn’t figure that I would be needing them for a while.

The first month is the toughest for the recruits. The second month is the toughest for a Drill Sergeant. For some strange reason, after the recruits have the first thirty days of army life under their belt, they suddenly begin to think of themselves as "old soldiers." They think their Drill Sergeant is a "buddy," who is just doing his job. He really isn’t trying to kill them after all. So the fifth week, you crack down even harder or you will loose control.

For years, I had heard sergeants from the old brown-boot army, refer to "Chinese fire drills," but I had no idea what one looked like. Apparently, it was supposed to be very funny. When I put my recruits through the obstacle course, I found out what a Chinese fire drill must look like. Some of the trainees had to make several tries at several of the obstacles and they had to use teamwork on some of the obstacles, but they all made it — the second time. They were marching much better and improving every day, but I still refused to let them sing Jody Cadence while they marched.

Before Rifle Range Week, I advised my ladies that everyone "would" qualify with their weapon. On the range, I worked one-on-one with them, except one skinny little shit from Kentucky. Instinctively, I knew that I didn’t have to worry about that hillbilly qualifying with a rifle. It took a little extra motivation for some of them, I believe it went something like, "You can either qualify with that rifle or you can wear it for a damn bow-tie!" That seemed to do the trick. Anyway, they all qualified.

During bivouac week, the recruits received training in night firing. One of these nights, I let Dreblow march them to the range and I stayed behind at base camp. The cooks were going to crank up the stove and brew coffee and soup for the troops and have it ready when they returned. While we waited, I hung around the kitchen tent and talked with the cooks. When I heard the troops coming, I told the cooks, "Boys, its time to crank up the coffee and soup. The troops are on the way back here." The cooks listened for a couple of seconds and one of them said, "Are you sure? I don’t hear shit." "I’m positive," I replied. Several trainees that were on KP duty were standing around the stoves and I spoke to them, "Come on Cruits follow me." I told the cooks, "I’m only going to take them a few yards over here boys. I’ll have them back before the troops arrive." After I led the trainees about fifty yards away from the noise of the kitchen, I stopped them with, "Hold it right here. Be quiet a few seconds and just listen." After a few seconds, I asked, "Now what do you here?" "Nothing Sergeant," they all chimed in. "Well listen again damn it. I hear troops marching. I don’t mean I hear their footsteps, I mean I hear their equipment, like rifle slings squeaking and rifle butts banging against canteens. Now listen again." After about two minutes, I said, "Now do you hear them?" "No Sergeant," they repeated. "Well stand there and keep your mouths shut and listen until you do hear them." After about ten minutes had passed, the Mess Sergeant walked over to where we stood in the darkness and asked, "Val, are you sure that you hear the troops? The coffee and soup will be ready soon and I still don’t hear shit." "Cookie, I’m positive, just wait a couple of more minutes, and you’ll hear them they’re only a couple of hundred yards away now. It sounds like the point platoon just crossed Long Street Road and they’re heading into our woods here," I whispered. He obviously doubted my sanity, but he stood quietly there with me in the dark and strained his ears anyway. Suddenly one of the recruits came over and said, "Sergeant Valentine, I think I hear somebody coming down there in the woods." I said, "Well at least you’re not totally deaf son. Get the others and go back to the kitchen and see if they need any help." The Mess Sergeant hesitated and then said, "Val, even I can hear them now. How the hell did you hear them before? They must have been a half a mile away then?" "Well cookie, its either due to lots of practice or I really do have some injun blood in me after all," I replied.

Just before beginning their out-processing for their next assignment, they were required to be tested in each of the categories of instruction that they had received. The list of subjects was surprisingly long, it included first aid, bayonet drill, dismounted drill, hand-to-hand combat, PT Test, general subjects, ect. As I recall, it took two days to get the battalion tested.

Everyone of my little bastards ran every step of the mile in the PT Test that time, even Butterball. He had lost about 20 pounds and needed a new issue of clothes, but he was still overweight. They did not fire their weapons again just for the test. Instead, the evaluators used their scores from the rifle range.

Well sir, you could have knocked me over with a feather when battalion said that our platoon had the highest platoon average score in every category and the highest individual score in every category. My Training Company Commander also promoted me to Sergeant First Class and I really appreciated what that meant — more beer money! The company commander also informed me that the commander of the newly formed Basic Combat Training Battalion at Fort Bragg would love to have me as a Drill Sergeant for the next three years. Now that nearly choked me up, but told him that I wasn’t interested.

I think Dreblow led the platoon in singing cadence as they marched around the battalion area the evening before they left and I went home earlier than usual. The next morning, after breakfast and the barracks were cleaned, I fell them in on the company street with bag and baggage to dismiss them so they could catch their bus to go on furlough before going on to their next assignment. Those guys were almost as glad to be rid of me as I was to be rid of them. Dreblow and I had a big drunk planned for that night.

Some relatives of my young soldiers had gathered beside our barracks. They had come to give their son, husband or brother a ride home, I guess. Anyway, after I had dismissed them, one recruit’s dad approached me and introduced himself. He said, "I was in the infantry during World War II. I had heard that the army pampered recruits now in basic training. I intended to write you and tell you that I wanted my son to get the toughest training that you could give him. But in the next letter I received, he told me everything that his mean Drill Sergeant was making him do so I decided not to bother you because you were obviously a very busy man." Then he thanked me.

[During the Korean War, the army discovered that fewer than ten percent of our soldiers were actually trying to use their rifle to kill the enemy. If they fired their weapon at all, they either shot into the air or closed their eyes when they fired, but they did not shoot at anyone in particular.

If a recruit refuses to kill during basic training or claims military-deferment based on their religious convictions, they should be automatically assigned to duty as a combat medic, but they should be pre-warned that is what their job will be. That’s tough, but fair. Only those who are truly conscientious objectors would allow themselves to be put in that position because their chances of survival would be no better than the infantrymen — maybe worse. If they are truly that religious, using them in that manner is not wrong. After all, they would be doing a humane job while they served their country and if they were killed, they would just get to their heaven a lot quicker. If they’re just guys who are trying to avoid doing their fair share, tough shit and good riddance. The army and the country are both better off without them during such times.]

To this day, I do not know how those kids made out after they left me. Maybe, I’m better off not knowing. Fran showed up also. She also talked me into coming back home and I did, but only after Dreblow and I celebrated getting rid of our recruits, excuse me, our "soldiers."

Like I already said, Fran was persistent. Well to make my point, let me share this with you. A few months after we were married, Fran took a job selling cosmetics door-to-door and within six months, she was their Number 2 salesperson nationwide. She could sell snowballs to Eskimos. She was working in Fayetteville, a small town, while their Number One salesperson was working in Los Angeles. That should give you a better understanding of her personality and how a naive bumpkin like me got tangled up with her in the first place. Fran wasn’t mean, Fran was just Fran and not much of anything else seemed to matter very much to her. Just like I was an SF soldier and not much else mattered to me.

When our company returned for regular duty, I discovered that the Special Warfare Center had some slots still open for a six-week French Language Course so I volunteered and got it. We went to class six hours a day. Madame Ngu’s sister was our teacher. Madame Ngu was the wife of the President of South Vietnam. One student was a slight built sergeant from Kentucky named Asa Ballard. One day the teacher asked Asa to read the lesson. One phrase was supposed to be "Qui, Qui Mademoiselle." Instead, he said, "Oooie, Oooie Madam Mozzellee." Our lovely teacher went into a state of shock. Her eyes bulged in disbelief and her jaw gaped. She tried to speak, but could not find the words and left the room. So we got an extra ten minute break that day. Asa was a great guy with a great sense of humor and I think that was just one of his pranks. He also sang and picked the guitar and he was a pretty darn good guitarist as I recall.

About two weeks into the class, one of the sergeants, I can’t remember his name, it may have been Bennett, but I really don't know why that name comes to mind, deliberately scratched his crotch in front of the teacher. She walked out of the class again. The next day, the sergeant was dropped from the class. Shortly afterwards, he was transferred out of special forces and shipped to South Vietnam as a Maggot [Military Assistance & Advisory Group]. There he was placed on a field advisory team and subsequently killed in combat.

French and Vietnamese were the only languages that pertained to Southeast Asia that we had available at the SWC at that time. The damn Vietnamese threatened to stop teaching us the Vietnamese language, if we had any courses in any of the mountain native’s languages, such as Rhade, Bru or Mnong. SF needed those languages as much as we needed Vietnamese and more than we needed French, but it never happened.

After about three weeks of language training, I ran into Master Sergeant John L. Miller in the NCO Club’s Annex One on Smoke Bomb Hill. John and I served together in Project Delta where he had been in charge of Delta’s Recon Teams. John was on a recruiting mission. He was trying to fill slots for a new outfit being formed at Fort Bragg. The unit was called Company D, [Augmented] 1^st Special Forces Group [Airborne]. He was looking for former members of Delta and men who had served in Laos. John said, "I can’t tell you all of the mission, but I understand that you have served in Laos. Is that correct?" I assured him that it was correct and then I volunteered. Immediately afterwards, I thought, "Oh, my aching feet. I wonder how many pair of jungle boots I’ll wear out in this mission training."

D Company didn’t even let me finish my language course. Hell, I hadn’t even learned how to say, "Please don’t shoot" in French. They cut orders transferring me the very next day and a couple of days later, they issued me two brand new pair of jungle boots. When they gave me those new boots, I cringed because I remembered the speed marches the last time I had volunteered for a secret mission like this to Laos.

When I first married Fran , we lived in a mobile home on our own lot in Sunset Park, a mobile home subdivision outside Fort Bragg. One day I noticed that two single men from our company, I will call them Dewey and Hewey had moved into our subdivision. They weren’t difficult to spot, especially Dewey's mobile home. It was painted camouflage and had a camouflage parachute canopy hung in the trees behind it for a patio.

To the best of my memory, Dewey and Hewey had formerly shared a mobile home in a trailer park, but they had a problem. Their neighbor’s dog barked constantly and disturbed their sleep. Their complaints brought no satisfaction. So they tried their version of diplomacy.

They invited their neighbors over for an outdoor barbecue. Their neighbors bragged on the delicious barbecue and the wife absolutely insisted that Dewey give her his recipe. After they had a few beers and finished their meal, Dewey and Hewey showed her the hide of their late pet tacked on the side of a tree. Shortly afterwards, without so much as a "How-do-you-do," the park owner hitched up their trailer, towed it from their space down to the park entrance and informed them, as they rolled out the front door and hit the ground, that they were evicted. Dewey and Hewey were a tad lacking in diplomacy, but when it came to combat, you couldn’t ask for a better soldier beside you.

One day, I went over to Hewey’s place and he was sitting on the front steps of his mobile home with a shotgun across his lap. About the time that I slammed my car door shut, he brought up the shotgun, aimed, and blasted away at his sidewalk. Pellets and concrete pebbles went flying everywhere. Hewey was obviously drunker than a skunk, I walked up to him and asked, "Hey Hewey, what the hell’s going on?" He said, "I hate flies. I’m shooting every damn one that lands on my property."

When we shipped out to Vietnam, Dewey threw his garbage cans and door keys on top of his roof. Why Dewey threw the garbage cans up there was a complete mystery to me, but the keys would definitely be safe on the roof.

North Carolina is one of those damn Democrat-controlled states, it has more taxes than you can shake a stick at. One of those taxes is a personal property tax or luxury tax as some folks call it. They tax you for each cat, dog, color TV, black and white TV, hog, cow, VCR, etc. that you own. When it was time to fill out your personal property tax form, Dewey out did himself. He did so good, his form was printed on the front page of the Fayetteville Observer. He had listed alligators, crocodiles, monkeys, and just about every other exotic animal that you can think of as being on his property.  At that time, soldiers stationed there who were not natives of North Carolina were exempt from that particular tax.

One evening Larry Dickinson went to the Main NCO Club on Fort Bragg and the manager asked him to leave because he was not wearing a tie. Larry left. About an hour later Larry returned with his buddy Dreblow, both of them were wearing white dress shirts, black boot laces for ties, bib overalls and no shoes or socks. They had spray painted their feet and ankles black to appear as if they were wearing shoes and socks. They were allowed in, after all, they were wearing "ties."

[As I write this (1997), I believe Dewey’s camouflaged trailer is still in Sunset Park at 805 Conestoga Drive. The last I heard, Dewey was letting Sergeant Breon, another retired SF man, live there rent free. Dewey and Hewey were both from Florida. They stuck together like glue. They lived together off post and on post. When they were off duty, you seldom saw one without the other.  Believe it or not, they both lived to retire and they bought houses back-to-back in Ingles, Florida. Hewey worked in Saudi Arabia for a couple of years and then broke his neck in a car wreck in Ingles a couple of years later and was paralyzed from the neck down.  Dewey died of a heart attack in 1995. Hewey passed away a few years later.]