Chapter 13

Fort Stewart Georgia, quite possibly the flattest piece of terrain in the whole state of Georgia, a swampy, pine forested, mosquito infested, alligator crawling, hot hellhole in the world, at least my world at the time. There are many Vietnam vets I'm sure who would disagree with me, but take it from me. The place sucks, and the surrounding area ain't much better. I am from Georgia, and I would be one of the first in line to give the damn place back to anyone who wants it.

The local civilian population hated GIs with a passion, even as they drew their living from the base. When it had been reverted into a minor training ground in the early 1970's the near by town of Hinesville nearly dried up and blew away. Only the arrival of the 24th Infantry Division and the subsequent build up of the post had kept them alive. Perhaps this dependency on the soldiers was their basis, but at any rate, when I was there in the early 80's, they hated GIs. And, due to their actions against us, we felt pretty much the same way.

I was assigned to Ft Stewart for my first assignment straight out of basic and AIT, a brand new Cavalry Scout, eager and green as summer grass. I landed in Bravo Troop of 2/9 Cavalry, 24th Infantry Division, assigned as a driver on the platoon leaders vehicle. I was unaware that this assignment would affect the rest of my time in the Army, but it did indeed. Every assignment after that, I some how managed to end up working in close proximity with the platoon leader, either as his driver, gunner or after making NCO, his vehicle commander. Perhaps it was the fact I'd learned the operation of the multi-channel radios, or to navigate with very little direction, handle the radio traffic while he was occupied with various functions required of a Scout platoon leader, or the like, but I think mostly it was because with all the stress of the job, I provided comic relief.

My first field problem came a few weeks after I joined the unit, I'd met my platoon and started adjusting in, spent plenty of time in the motor pool, learning my vehicle, the dreaded M113 personnel beater, and being instructed on what was required of me by my track commander, and filled in on platoon gossip by the soon to be gone former driver. I was required to sign for the hand tools on the vehicle, and there was much slight of hand in the process I discovered later as the tools I'd seen when I signed for them disappeared the next time I looked in the tool bag. Thus did I learn one of the first lessons of many I would learn about the Army, if you sign for it, don't let it leave your sight.

Having announced the field exercise, our platoon sergeant, SSG Juan D Rodriguez, a fat Hispanic man, unofficially known to us as King Rat, sent us to the motor pool to prepare our vehicles. King Rat gave us the usual threats about breaking down in the field, and the punishment we could expect should we do so, and he departed. I had no idea where to even begin, but the former driver stepped in and began to give instructions. "Go to commo and get some batteries for the Prick 77, see the POL sergeant and get some tubes of grease,..." he droned on, then added, "I'll be here when you get back."

I must have spent at least an hour trying to find where to go and who to ask, getting the proper forms, and then lugging all the stuff back to the track. When I got back, he was sound asleep on the bench in the vehicle. He awoke long enough to show me where to stow all the stuff, then as he rolled back over told me to make sure to wake him up when it was time to go up for formation. I stepped back out of the vehicle and opened the engine compartment and began to look it over. As I pondered over the various components of the engine someone came up behind me and leaned over looking into the compartment with me. "Something wrong?" He asked. Without looking up, I replied, "no, just trying to figure the damn thing out." "I'm Lieutenant Newbill, the platoon leader." He said, "you must be my new driver." I damn near broke my back snapping to attention and saluting him, my experience with officers was nil, the only one's I had any experience with prior to this had been a brief conversation with one in basic, and the army dentist I'd met. "Relax, I'm not a dragon" he said, "what do they tell you guys in basic about us anyway, you all come out acting like we're gonna eat you or something." He went on talking and asking me questions about everything from where I was from to training I had, all the while looking over the vehicle and equipment. He told me a little about himself, and by the time he left, I felt a lot better, but still nervous about being in close proximity to an officer.

The next several days we prepared for the field, and finally, the big day, at least for me, came, we loaded up our vehicles, drew our weapons, and rolled out the gate towards the training area. The dust hung in the air as we followed the first section of the platoon down the tank trail, which to a southern boy like me, was merely another dirt road. As we got further from the motorpool, we began to encounter large dips and holes in the road, all full of muddy brown water. The vehicle commander instructed me to drive around the edge of them, and for my sake, don't splash him. Behind us, the rest of the platoon snaked out in a staggered formation. I kept creeping up on the vehicle ahead of us, and kept getting yelled at for doing so. "Damn it private, keep a hundred yard interval between us and them."