SNEAK PREVIEW: TATTLE TALE TEACHER

      Fresh out of college, my wife, Leena and I headed for Church Rock, New Mexico, where I would team up with Mike Stanley, my old missionary companion, and teach sixth grade at an all Navajo elementary school.

Church Rock Elementary School, Church Rock, New Mexico

      While going about our daily routine at Church Rock Elementary, Mike and I interacted with a lot of fine people. The principal, office staff, custodians, cooks, aides, and other teachers. They were all great to work with. But, there was this one female teacher from New York City who took a dislike to us right away. It was hard to determine if her disdain was just for us or for men in general. She was short, rather stout, and you might say she had a low center of gravity. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

Seinfeld cast: "Not that there's anything wrong with that!"

      She was a freckle-faced woman who sprouted a curly stand of bright red hair which she tossed from side to side with vigor when she spoke. You could hear her complaining loudly in her high pitched, nasal, New York accent whenever she was within earshot. In an attempt to avoid her and protect his own sanity, Principal Hinman had placed her in an outside portable classroom at the far end of the playground, as far from his office as possible.

Portable metal classroom.

      Even at that she had blazed a trail through  the sand to his office. Back and forth, back and forth she went, usually with some complaint about Mr. Stanley or Mr. Rogers. “They are too loud at recess.” “They play too close to my classroom.” “Their kickballs bounce off my metal roof.” And on, and on. “They went ahead of my class at lunch.” “They were late for bus duty.” “And why do they get the nice indoor classrooms?” You get the point. An endless stream of being victimized! Of course we were innocent of any intentional harassment.

      One day in a moment of extreme duress she threatened to have her husband beat us bloody, tie us in knots, "take us to the mat for some ground and pound.” You know, tweak our noses! We secretly wondered, “Had she married an Olympic wrestler? Or maybe a linebacker for the New York Giants? Should we be concerned?”

Dick Butkus, New York Giants linebacker

      Then came the night of our faculty Christmas party, and her mystery hubby showed up. At first it was hard to get a good fix on him. He kept darting amid the crowd of party goers like a frightened animal, avoiding eye contact at all costs. All in all, I suppose he could have been described as a shorter, mousier version of Woody Allen. And he was going to do WHAT???

The great Woody Allen

       Winter was now in full swing and our playground was covered in deep snow. The temperature was just right for rolling huge snowballs and making snowmen. Off and on, at recess, a fun snowball fight would break out. Usually the teachers were being attacked by playful students. That’s when the portable classroom door would bang open and out leaped a bushy, bobbing redhead.

 

Rooster fight.

      No, a carrot-topped, fighting, screeching bantam rooster with red-painted nails like claws raking the air. It was difficult to tell just what the creature was trying to say through all the cackling and screeching. But I believe the general idea was that throwing snowballs is against the school rules. “If Mr. Stanley and Mr. Rogers won’t obey the school rules, I’m going to the principal!”

     Well, that called for a Sixth Grade Huddle. We would definitely explain our sixth grade rules to our students. First, we would each make two good sized snowballs. That would total about 100 snowballs. Second, on our whistle the first fifty snowballs would be released into the side and onto the roof of her tin portable classroom. Third, the second volley of snowballs would be released in the general direction of the Screecher as she came flying out the door. The sound was incredible as the first fifty snowballs landed, sounding much like kettle drums and gongs in a raging battle of cannon fire. BAM, BAM-BAM-BAM, BAM, BAM, BOOM!!!! KABOOM!!! BAM, BOOM, BAM, BOOM, BAM, BOOM!!!! All fifty snowballs hit their mark.

Mad as h**l!!!

      Sure enough the door flew open. But even before she could erupt the Screecher was covered by an avalanche of well-placed snowballs. The second whistle blew and with military precision we marched off, retreating to the safety of our warm, roomy, soundproof classrooms, followed close behind by an outburst of obscene curses and hand gestures the likes of which are rarely heard or seen except in the darkest back alleys of New York City. Her concert of curses is probably still echoing back and forth through the red cliff canyons surrounding Church Rock Elementary School.

End of a trying day!

      At the end of the day, following our regular school wide announcements, a special announcement was made: “Mr. Stanley and Mr. Rogers. Report to the Principal’s office!”

     

YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW!

      It was the summer of 1963. The war in Vietnam was heating up big time. Young men from all over the country were being drafted for a two-year stint in the army, and some were even signing up for four years of regular military service. As for the "Ash Ave" boys, we preferred the National Guard. Six months of basic training, one weekend a month, and a short two week summer camp once a year sounded better to us. I was seventeen, going on eighteen. Those of us who signed up were shipped off to Fort Ord, California, for Basic Training. This was the first time I had ever flown on a plane.

Fort Ord post card

    It didn’t take long after entering the gates of Fort Ord before we learned that we were no longer independent, thinking individuals, but were now G.I.s – Government Issue – a piece of property belonging to the government. If they wanted to poke us full of holes, or shave our heads, or use us for cannon fodder, it was their business, not ours. “What's your waist size""What’s your shoe size?” You wore the fatigues and boots you were given for the next three months whether they fit or not. Looking good was not their top priority for new recruits. Fitting everything we owned into a small footlocker or duffle bag was a trick that would have made Houdini proud, but we figured it out. Most personal items were taken and stored until our initial training was over.

Fort Ord Army Base, Monterrey, CA

      Well, ok. I can play this game. I can be gung-ho. “Yes, sir!” “No, sir!” “Whatever you say, sir!” There were some things that took some getting used to for a Utah boy. The never ending stream of foul language, the open urinal troughs, the rows of exposed toilet heads with no stalls, and being jolted awake at 4 a.m. by a sadistic sergeant bashing loudly on our tin garbage can with his club. Once up, we were off, jogging three or four miles through the dark ocean mist before starting our P.T. (physical training) exercises.

Basic Training camp urinal troughs and exposed toilet heads.

       For a non-smoker the smell of tobacco at every break was an obnoxious irritation that took some getting used to. “Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em,” was the battle cry. “Butt sweep” meant every soldier picked up cigarette butts wherever we stopped for a break. “Hurry up and wait” became our motto. We were always in a rush to get to our next assigned training, and then we would stand and wait, and wait and stand, and wait some more before they were ready for us.

Recruits sitting in the hot sun during boring basic training classes.

    Staying awake during training classes was an unbelievable challenge. Running on little sleep and sitting in the hot sun made it impossible to keep our eyes open as boring instructors ranted on in monotone voices from memorized scripts. These instructors made Ferris Bueller's teachers look like pros. You better not blink too long during class or you'd find yourself peeling potatoes and cleaning grease traps on K.P., something I became very familiar with. We were faced by a lot of new challenges, but one area in which the Army excelled was the food! Their meal choices rivaled anything you would find at a Las Vegas smorgasbord.

Barracks at Fort Ord, CA.

    My gung-ho attitude must have paid off. I was picked to be a Squad Leader sporting a blue arm band with gold stripes. Unfortunately that was to be short lived. It seems the army trainers didn’t care for a soldier with a smirk. They thought I was mocking them. Their ability to be offended had no limits. “Wipe that smile off your face, soldier!” I didn’t even know I was smiling. Trying not to smile appeared to be even more mocking.

    One warm afternoon our squad was rotating through First Aid training.  You know: arterial bleeding, sunken chest wounds, burns, splints, and CPR. It was our turn to flop in the sand and practice real mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The idea of mouth-to-mouth with another trainee gave me the creeps. After tilting the head back, dropping the jaw, and clearing the airway, we were relieved to learn we would not be sealing our mouths over the "victim," but instead were instructed to expel our air over the cheek of the "distressed soldier." You can probably imagine the chuckles and silent laughter as we tormented our partners by blowing air over cheeks, up nostrils, and into ears.

    Our instructor was not amused. "Halt! I said HALT right now!" he barked. "This is not a game! The next soldier who even cracks a smile will wish he were dead!" This instructor was not just any old sergeant. He was huge, with muscles bulging out of his uniform, battle proven scars, and a permanent sneer. Before commanding us to start again, he took up a position straddling me, with one boot almost touching each shoulder. "Begin!" he shouted. In compete silence we obeyed.

    Looking up I could see the Sergeant's upper lip quivering in a dog like snarl exposing canines that would make a pit bull proud. He was searching hard for someone to make an example. Determined that it would not be me, I bit my tongue until it bled. Before expelling his air across my cheek, my partner and high school buddy, Tom Schaerrer, whispered, "Did you brush your teeth?" That did it. I didn't laugh out loud but my belly began to bounce. Catching this slight movement, the sergeant's angry eyes focused down on me. He stopped everything and growled, “On your feet, soldier! You think this is funny?” Rip, rip, rip! There went the stripes. Goodbye Squad Leader. Hello K.P.! My attitude began changing from gung-ho to “Let’s just have some fun.”

“Wipe that smile off your face, soldier!” "Yes, Sergeant!"

      There was another company Sergeant who took sadistic pleasure in finding useless tasks to torture those assigned to K.P. duty, and enjoyed prolonging their punishment while the rest of the squadron was off showering and relaxing for the evening. On one such occasion I was his unlucky target. He felt the clothes line pole was too high and demanded it be dug up and set deeper in the ground. It wasn't easy but I was making progress. Blisters began to appear on my gloveless hands. He would return about every fifteen minutes to pelt me with his personally patented string of profanities. With eagle eyes he finally surveyed the hole. "You've go it, Rogers. Now bury the damn thing!" Then turning abruptly he marched off leaving his "Orders of the Day" clip board on my pile of dirt. "Hmmm." I picked up the clip board, tossed it into the bottom of the hole, and did as he instructed. I buried the damn thing. Shortly thereafter he returned to inspect my work. "Good job, soldier. You're dismissed. -- Oh, by the way, have you seen my blankety-blank clip board around here?" "No, Sergeant! Not lately, Sergeant!" Maybe K.P had its own rewards.

      Parts of our training were fun such as throwing live grenades, and practicing how to kill each other with bayonets in hand to hand combat. " You're either the quick or the dead!" the instructors barked. 

Bayonet Training. Fort Ord, CA.

     Running several miles to the rifle range with a fully loaded field pack and an M-14 rifle was exhausting, but all the running and early morning exercise was getting us into great shape. Shooting at targets several hundred yards away was a blast. This is where we learned that you "stay off the horizon" if you want to live another day.  I think my scores made me a Marksman. Dave Beck’s scores were so low that we all decided to take a few random shots at his target to help him out. When they racked up his score he had more hits that shots taken. This was followed by a gruff announcement, “Make sure the target you’re engaging is your own!”

Rifle range. Fort Ord, CA

M-14 Rifles.

Butt of M-14 rifle with slot for cleaning kit.

      When we finally got to leave the base on weekends, I would take the bus a short distance to San Francisco to visit my sister, Kay, who was working there.  She lived in an all-girls boarding house  with a tyrant “Madam” charged with overseeing their safety and virtue. I could hardly get permission  to see my own sister.

Golden Gate Bridge in the fog.

      What a beautiful city San Francisco was! I loved the cable cars, Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, the Golden Gate Bridge, and I even loved the fog slipping in and out of the Bay. I spent a lot of time reading in the elegant lobby of the St. Francis Hotel. I would take side trips to places like Muir Woods and walk the silent paths under the towering redwoods. It was truly a sanctuary for the soul.

Muir Woods National Park, California

     Before our first three months of training came to an end, we survived a torturous twenty-mile forced march, and an obstacle course with live ammo, tear gas, and deafening explosives detonating  in nearby bunkers. Hugging the ground we had to crawl like lizards through the sand and under sharp barbed wire. A graduation ceremony was held where we paraded before all the commanding officers at Fort Ord. We had made it. We were now considered real soldiers. The worst part of Basic Training was over!

Obstacle Course with barbed wire and live ammo flying overhead. Fort Ord, CA.

      My next three months would be spent at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where I was to be trained as a Combat Engineer. Building bridges, setting mine fields, using explosives, and going to truck drivers’ school all lay ahead of me. Our group arrived during a beautiful Missouri fall, and would be leaving for home just in time for Christmas.

Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri

     Fort Leonard Wood was certainly a change from the warm sand and ocean breezes of Fort Ord, California. The rolling forested hills of Missouri and the humidity of the Mississippi River Valley took some getting used to. As the weather grew colder, a low cloud of grey coal smoke hung over our camp. Our old two-story wooden barracks were heated by coal-burning furnaces. Our night time guard duty was called “Fire Watch.” We would stoke the hot furnaces with shovelfuls of black coal and make sure all was under control. A fire in one of these tinder boxes could be disastrous. 

     Building floating bridges in November and December was as frigid as it gets. And how cold was it, you ask? Well, maybe Johnny Carson could best answer that one.

Army Combat Engineers building a floating pontoon bridge.

 

       Learning to bury and arm land mines wasn’t so bad. Finding them, disarming and removing them was intense, especially if they were booby trapped. I silently hoped I would never need to do this in a real life situation!

Removing M-15 land mines.

        The easiest and most enjoyable part of my training was learning to drive a variety of military vehicles, ranging from jeeps to five-ton dump trucks. With a military driver’s license in hand I began escorting officers around the base in comfortable jeeps. The good thing was, this license didn’t expire and could be used in years to come.

Army Jeeps

Military vehicle: Five-ton dump truck. 

     On a cold day in late November we learned that President John F. Kennedy had been shot. At first it was hard to believe this was true or that anything like this could happen in our country. When reality finally set in, we all experienced a solemn state of depressed confusion.

        Our three months at Fort Leonard Wood flew by, and we began to feel confident in the various areas of our training. Toward the end of O.J.T. (On the Job Training) a fearful anxiety was beginning to surface in our regular Army friends. They would soon be deployed to Vietnam. Thankfully the National Guard soldiers would be going home for Christmas and their “weekend warrior” duties. Up to this point the National Guard units were not being called up for active duty.

        While I was away playing soldier boy my parents had built a beautiful addition to our small home. Now there was a large family room, an extra bathroom, laundry room, and an apartment in the basement. I’d left home with great enthusiasm for my personal freedom. I remember saying to Dad with a smirk, "I can’t wait to get out of of this hole." After six months of army training and living in barracks, home never looked so good. Dad greeted me with, "How does the "Old Hole" look now?" I couldn't believe he still remembered my thoughtless words. Good job, Dad!