Edit: unfortunately, the format gets changed when I post. No proper paragraphs😕
MILTARYJOURNEY 1953-1961
I had returned to the States, to Camp Roberts, California. I joined a Training Division, in this case, the Seventh Armored. I was assigned as an Instructor in Division Faculty. We would teach trainees, recruits, all the General Subjects; Map Reading, Chemical, Biological, and Radiological Warfare. About every subject that builds a qualified and prepared soldier, was what we would teach. In 1953 I was promoted to Master Sergeant; I completed my career plan twenty-seven years early. I made myself a promise, any soldier under me would be prepared to survive in combat. I enjoyed the duty but started drinking excessively. The drinking was no small part of my life. In looking back, I tried to understand why I became such a drunk. It started with boredom, you work all day and then went back to the Barracks each evening, there may be a more boring place than a Barracks in the evening, but that place does not come to mind. It would start by going down to the “Beer Hall,” but drinking beer and sitting around listening to war stories just didn’t cut it. Then it was trips to Paso Robles, and boozing it up. The Army itself ties almost all its social events to drinking. Yes, I would admit that a lot of the drinking had to do with coping with the stupidity of war, people, and situations, after all, say what you will, when you’re soused you feel very little. The one thing I accepted was it’s a self-inflicted wound. I got into trouble years later when the granddaddy of all cop-outs became stylish, “Alcoholism is a disease.” A disease you catch, or are passed down. It’s simple; you don’t want to drink, quit!! The Army decided to close Camp Roberts and did one of those things that drove me nuts. We had truckloads of supplies and equipment that were not accountable on anyone’s records, It was carried out to an area and buried. I asked why we couldn’t send it to other outfits. It seems it would reflect poor management on part of the Command. I closed out my duty at Camp Roberts by returning from town roaring drunk and ran over the MP shack at the Main Gate. I caught a bus for Fort Lewis Washington the next morning, after returning a car I had bought. I left it in front of the car dealership with a note that informed them. “This car does not steer straight.” I was still drunk. Fort Lewis was one of those Posts that always appealed to me. I was assigned to the 77th Infantry Division. It was a reactivated outfit and like all new outfits, it was short of supplies and equipment. I volunteered to take a convoy to Camp Roberts. Their response, “Request Denied.” I went to McCord Air Force Base and got all I needed by signing for everything with my First Sergeant’s signature. Ah, Life was great. The only thing that comes through those months, and the haze of Alcohol, at Fort Lewis, was our short tour to Alaska for Training Exercises. We moved into an area called Tanna Ridge, sometimes called the Ice Mountain. One day I out-skied the Alaskan National Guard patrol trying to capture me. They could have caught me, but, they were laughing too hard. So I got away. I would have done a lot better if I would have known how to ski. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered much. As I escaped the Guard I skied right into their Prisoner of War Compound. Too bad I was sober. It was 1953, the War in Korea was winding down, at least on the higher level. I returned to Korea, I was looking for something I lost there, but I didn’t know what it was, maybe it was that innocence, that we all hate to let go of. I was assigned to the Seventh Infantry Division; my Regiment was shipped to Pusan to guard the Neutral Nations Inspection Team. Their Job was to check on all the agreements of the cease fire. The problem was some of the Nations involved were Communist and the local Korean people were incensed that they were in their country and under our protection. The compound that we were housed in, on a regular basis, would be the target of giant demonstrations, not all were peaceful. We never had a problem with the violent demonstrations, you simply use enough return force to stop it. The tactics they used that tested the discipline of your Unit was the full charge against your security Platoon, blocking the gates. About five feet from the Bayonets the crowd would stop, then a path would open up, and five or six guys carrying baskets “Honey Buckets” would burst through and spread the contents over the Platoon. To be layered with Human waste had a tendency to ruin your day. In all the times I saw this used, our troops never reacted violently. I did notice a lot of flinching. The hard part of the duty was that you had to accomplish three missions, security, work details, and Training. There simply were not enough men to do all that was required. The responsibility fell to the Operations Sergeant in the Battalions to juggle schedules. I had become an Operations Sergeant. I’ve thought long and hard to think of how to explain what your duties would be in that position. I decided it would explain more to talk about the three Operations Sergeants of the units. The Operations Sergeant of the First Battalion, straightened up his desk one morning, filed all his reports, put on a clean set of fatigues, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, then walked out behind his office to an empty Quonset Hut, and hung himself. The Operations Sergeant of the Second Battalion was found huddled in his room, in a corner, incoherently babbling about “Nothing fits, nothing fits. Does it???” (Who Knows.) The Operations Sergeant for the Third Battalion smiled a lot, volunteered for ridicules details, and generally had a good time, of course, he was Drunk around the clock. They never could tell I was drunk, until one day, I showed up sober. It was a tour you wait for to end. I returned to the United States and this time to Fort Lewis again, I think this time the outfit was the 5th Regimental Combat Team. It was on this tour of duty that I quit drinking. One morning about 0610 hrs. It was foggy, and I had just received the reports from all my companies. Senior Non-Commissioned Officers took turns conducting “Reveille.” I gave my report to the Regimental Officer, I could see his legs hanging out of the Fog about 20 paces away. I was of course, drunker than a Skunk. There were a couple of minor details I overlooked. One, it was Sunday. Two, there were no troops or units to get reports from. The third, and most important was, those legs hanging out of the fog, belonged to the Colonel, Commanding the Regiment. In a brief statement, the Colonel, I was informed, would break me to Private and put me, not in the Stockade, but under it. I made a major life change by noon that day. I decided that I would have to become more involved with my work, to compensate for the lack of booze. I became obsessed with having everything in order administratively. The payoff came when the Inspector General’s, annual inspection came around. I was given the highest score in the Regiment. The Regimental Commander was delighted and took full credit for my sobriety. (As he was reading my results, and gloating how well I did, I felt like saying, “I’ll drink to that.”) I requested an overseas assignment and was floored when I received orders for Panama. Panama was the “Old Soldiers Home,” one of the most sought after assignments in the Army. Usually, you had to be political, or a Mason, or know someone high up. I didn’t qualify in any of those cases, but I didn’t turn it down. On arrival in the United States Army Caribbean, I was assigned to the Army Headquarters as the Operations Sergeant. The best way to describe an Army Headquarters is to accept the fact that you go higher, you get nuttier. Everyone was a Prima-Donna. The people who work around you, although they were oftentimes excellent men, had to work for the higher-ups, that were beyond the reality of common Soldiers. In some cases, you had to wonder what Army they were in. The majority of my work had to do with briefing General Officers and foreign dignitaries. If I could have packaged “Egos”, cause I know there’s a market for them, I could have retired early, real, early. Working with people that are so taken with themselves can be a strain, seldom can you please them. I used two little tricks that became survival weapons for me. Those that are unbearable, threatening or just idiots with power, I would decide they were no longer amongst the living. I could receive their orders and carry them out, but they had no value to me, for in my mind, they are already dead. The downside of this is if they were threatened with death my response would have been, “Tough Shit.” The second way I used was for people who I could tolerate, but their egos seemed to be their headlights. These people, when they entered the room, I would just picture them, “Sitting on the Throne.” Often times I was asked by some of these same people how I handled my briefings without being nervous, I would tell them, and watch them get nervous. The duty in Panama was all I had heard people talk about. I spent a lot of time out in the civilian areas and especially an area called, “San Francisco.” The locals had a game they would play in the surf. It consisted of nine or ten of them going out while the tide was going down and catching the Sharks and selling them. One day I was watching a couple of groups, “Catching the Shark,” There was this great flurry of people scattering and screaming, you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what happened. It appeared “Catching the Shark,” was a two-way street. After about fifteen minutes of complete Chaos, a group came running back to the beach, at first I thought they had part of a shark, but as they got to the beach I could see one of the men had the arm of another man. All they had was his arm and head and less than a third of the body. Very dead. Sharks = 1, Men = 0. Some of my duties took me across the peninsula, one day on the main highway, I passed two groups of village people who, were involved in a discussion about the events of the night before. It seems that native women, who worked in the city or as maids, would walk home in the evening and most of the time stayed right in the middle of the road. I figured, well that’s not too swift, cause the way the Chiva drivers roared around they were bound to pick off a few. That wasn’t the case. It seems the “Fer-de-Lance,” a snake, full-grown about six feet long and very poisonous, with ugly horn-like growths on its head, would attack the women at night. They were considered very aggressive and one of the few Snakes that will hunt you down. As I said, Panama was an interesting tour of duty. As my time in Panama drew to a close, I got word that most of the people that left Panama went to Fort Benning, Georgia. The last place I wanted to be. I decided to use an “Old Soldier” trick. When I filled out my preference forms for future assignments, they requested three preferences. Well, the Army would never send you where you wanted to go, so in those slots on the form, I listed Fort Benning, Georgia, in all three slots. It’s not hard to figure, right. I got my orders and went to Fort Benning, Georgia. (So much for “Old Soldier” tricks.) As I arrived at Columbus, Georgia, the town closest to Fort Benning, I came in by bus. I had not paid attention to the people on the Bus that much until we got off, it was then that I noticed the Negros, (Sorry, all you, or should I say, Vail, politically correct people, that’s what blacks were called at that time in history.) They had all been at the back end of the bus. As we unloaded I saw the people line up at, what I thought was the restaurant. Everyone knows in the south everyone still has outhouses, everyone runs around barefooted, hollering “yall com bac yheeer,” Hell, I’ve seen the same movies you did. The restaurant was two sawhorses with a board across them. The people would order and then stand around eating. I stood in line and it didn’t dawn on me that everyone else was a Negro. An older Negro man turned to me and said, “Boss, you can’t eat here, you got to go around the front, that’s for white folks.” I was embarrassed, I sort of mumbled and walked around front. The restaurant was just like those you see any place in the United States, except for the sign that said, “Whites Only.” I lost my hunger and waited for the bus to Fort Benning. The time I waited, only one thought came to my mind. “Erwin, rolled on a grenade, to save my ass, for this?” I was assigned to the Infantry School as an Instructor, That’s like being a professor at Harvard University in civilian life. In short, you have arrived. My assignment was with the Ground Mobility Department, of the Infantry School. Their mission was to teach all aspects of wheeled and Track vehicles, this makes perfect sense, I couldn’t find the gas cap on most cars. One thing about the Army, when given a mission, you never say I can’t do it. You just do it. The Instructor is responsible for his class and if it is screwed up, you pay dearly. The edge I had is that I am a damn fine teacher. (You expected coyness?) Teaching in the Army is a little different than you would experience on the outside. A unit in training runs on a schedule, that is unforgiving, you may have so many minutes to get from one area or classroom to the next. Being late is not stylish, once you get into a class the Instructor has fifty minutes, not forty- nine, or fifty-one, but fifty minutes to get his class information across. No slack. The challenge for me, of course, was to learn the Subjects on wheeled and track vehicles. I would attend as many classes as possible given by Instructors that knew what they were talking about. For the first couple of months, everything was “rote.” I then started to sound like I knew what I was talking about; sort of. The second challenge was my Officer in Charge, (OIC), He was totally unlikable. His main shortcoming was that he would panic in most situations and in all, where an Officer senior to him would appear. He demanded respect, but seldom earned it, and never gave it. In truth, he wasn’t much. They use to say in the ranks, (Enlisted,) that about every third commander you would serve under would be, “One card short of a full deck,” I seemed to get the nut every time. My first falling out with him came one early morning when the Committee was supposed to set up a vehicle display of all wheeled and track vehicles. The OIC and I were the first to arrive and he would tell me where to put a Jeep, and I would do it. Things went fairly smooth until we got to the Track vehicles, case in point, the M48 Tank, I had never driven one, in fact as an Infantryman, I stayed away from them, as they draw a lot of “Incoming rounds.” Well the OIC, told me to get in and move the M48, I tried three times to tell him, I didn’t know how, he wouldn’t listen and ordered me, almost in a rage to move it. My response was, “Yes sir!” I got in the M48, and got situated in the driver’s seat, got the hatch open, messed around and got it started. I looked out and the OIC was standing about six feet in front of me, getting ready to ground-guide me. I tried to wave him off, he shook his head and motioned me forward, well, what the hell, I released the Laterals and gave it the gun. That M48 leaped about four feet forward, and the expression on the OIC’s face was one of terror, he turned and ran like hell, and I was right on him, fortunately, he ran straight to the fence opposite us. He was spread eagle against the fence when I locked the brakes, and stopped about four feet from him. He sort of lost it, and threaten to court-martial me, plus a few other things. I hollered right back at him and told him the Colonel, Ole Grease Rack six, (We called him GR6,) would want to know why my OIC, had an unqualified driver, moving vehicles. The OIC saw a question he didn’t want to answer, so he gave me a look that kills and told me to move the rest of the vehicles, and took off. The one person that could turn on my OIC, and he feared more than a measly old M48, was Grease Rack Six. He’ll be the second part of my assignment. He was probably the most despised man on the Post, even by his peers. After that, my OIC tried to make things difficult for me, but I managed to fend off most of his stupidity. One of his classic screw-ups came by his own perchance for panic. One early morning the Committee was setting up a vehicle cross country demonstration and we had all our vehicles positioned, and just waiting to go. The NCOs were having coffee, and someone had brought out some donuts, so it was a good beginning. Someone hollered, “The General is here,” The Post Commander showed up for most of the major demonstrations, so it wasn’t a big deal. Our OIC, came roaring toward us, damn near screaming, “Get rid of the Coffee,” He proceeded to drop-kick our thermos of coffee over the side of the hill. At this same time, the General’s sedan pulled into our area, the General got out and said. “How about some coffee and a donut?” (The General knew how to deal with enlisted men,) Our OIC lunged over the side of the hill in full pursuit of the Thermos. Between us, we hustled the General a cup of coffee and a donut, while everyone could hear our OIC thrashing through the bushes, looking for the ill-fated thermos. The General asked, “Is that the demonstration??” Did you ever have a test of wanting to roll around on the ground in a blast of Belly laughs, but resisted? Grease Rack Six, used up six lifetimes of Karma of our OIC, He chewed the seat out of his trousers. Our OIC, spent most of his remaining tour hiding from GR6. After a year in a faculty position, an opening came up for Operations Sergeant in the Department Headquarters, working for GR6. Never have so many men attempted to get someone else assigned to a position. My records were reviewed and I got the golden opportunity. Oh Joy, upon Joy. My in-briefing with GR6 could be summed up by a modification of my own philosophy, “There is the right way, the wrong way, the Army way, and GR6’s way.” My job was to schedule, for one year, all the classes the Department gave to NCOs, Officers, Advanced Officers, and OCS. Day by day, hour by hour, then coordinate the equipment, areas, instructors, and anything else that may be needed. As I completed that I would lay it out on a massive chart and GR6 would look it over and sign it on the bottom. His parting comment would give me a warm feeling like maybe I was wearing a full diaper. GR6 would stare at me and say, “if it’s not right, I’ll have your stripes.” My response, “Yes Sir!” I also carried on training schedules and other duties as assigned. (They always love to add that one.) One of those other assigned duties was the morning briefing of the Charts. I believe many people could relate to that particular job, not so much because of the details of it, but because of a Commander, CEO, Supervisor, Boss, or Tyrant. It went like so. GR6 believed that if it existed, it should have a chart, showing that it existed. In his office, he had thirty-six charts, they were four feet wide, and four feet long. Reflected on the charts was all the information on the main Operations schedule he had signed off on. The detail was much greater. My responsibility was to keep them up to date as of 0700 hours each morning of each day. Additionally, there was a three-ring binder on his desk that contained the same information, that also must be maintained. The basics were in place, so all that is left is procedure. At 0630 hours, each duty day I reported to his office and of course up-dated all the charts and the three-ring binder. I would place the binder, closed, on his desk, centered. At 0655 hours I would stand next to his entry door at a spot designated by a small piece of tape, indicating where my right toe was to rest. I would stand at the position of “Attention,” even though I was alone. GR6 would usually arrive at 0700, but I would stand there until he did, or I was excused by someone with more authority (God?) When he did show I would remain silent. He would walk to his desk, sit down, say nothing, then he would open his three-ring folder. If it was the cover, then that was my cue to approach him, any other page demanded me to remain in position. I would walk at a fifteen-degree angle to the left, to a position exactly two feet in front of his desk, centered. A piece of tape indicated where my right toe should rest. I would salute him and greet him, “Good morning, Sir, it is Friday the thirteenth for the next two years of my life.” I gave him the correct time, date, and a detailed weather report, GR6 was “Airborne qualified,” and he was always interested in the velocity of the wind, etc., etc, (I always thought the only thing that should fall out of the sky was Bird Shit.) I would pause for ten seconds, then move to the charts, a piece of tape marked where my right toe should rest. I would go through a chart and GR6 would follow in the three-ring binder. If there were no questions I would wait until he turned the page, then go on to the next chart, and on and on. One “Fly in the Ointment,” was GR6 kept his own set of notes, and sometimes stop by areas and get corrections as they were taking place. He would inform me I wasn’t updating the charts in the correct manner. My response, “Yes sir!” When GR6 closed the binder, that was my command to do “About Face,” and walk back to my starting position by the door. I would do another, “About Face,” and wait, GR6 would then state, “That is all.” I would “About Face,” step out the door and all that could be heard was the “Click,” of the latch. One day I had survived the morning routine, it was about 1630 hrs. (4:30 PM.) I was informed that GR6 wanted me to report to him. I went to his office and reported to him, He was in his “Golf outfit,” and soaking wet. I knew what was coming. He looks at me with the “You're dead, why are you still standing,” look and said, “Master Sergeant Therriault, you told me it would not rain this afternoon, it did. “Why?” Me, “I shall find out sir.” I exited his office, went upstairs, and called the Airfield. A Captain understood my situation, but thought it was hilarious; I informed him my humor was fading fast. The Captain gave me the whole routine of why it rained, the changing patterns, and the whole smear. I reported back to GR6, gave him a detailed explanation, “Why it rained.” Good Ole GR6 glared at me and said, “Master Sergeant Therriault you are not to let that happen again. “You’ll see that the patterns stay stable.” My response, “Yes Sir!” My thoughts, “Holy shit, I’ve been promoted to God by God himself.” It was apparent, the time had come to escape. I looked around and started inquiring as to what may be available that would meet GR6’s approval, I knew nothing plush would get by him. In reviewing my records I really became aware that I had four strengths; Command and Leadership, Operations, Intelligence, and Training. My background lead to Intelligence as an area that I had quite a bit of experience that had not been used. It was 1961, and the newest thing going was a place called Vietnam. The Far East had always appealed to me so why not. The Special Forces were the headliners, but that didn’t appeal to me. The other area was Military Advisory Assistance Group, (MAAG), I was given an Orientation Course at Fort Holabird, Maryland. (The Army Intelligence Center). They initially informed me to stay within the normal channels of the Army, but if anything “Special,” came up “they” would contact me. I requested an assignment to Vietnam, as an “Advisor.” There was no resistance from GR6 and I was thrilled, to say the least, but I would have volunteered to go to Red Square, and Indian-wrestle the Russian Army, one by one. On my last day of duty, GR6 called me to his office, I don’t know who snuck into GR6’s Office, but the guy that greeted me was smiling, even got out of his chair, thanked me for my Services, when he put his hand on my shoulder, I really got paranoid. Ole GR6 looked me right in the eye, and said, “Well Sergeant, I have good news for you, I’m going to Vietnam also.” I could almost repeat his next words before he said them. “I’ll have you sent to my Command as soon as I get word of your assignment.” My response, “Yes Sir!” It was very clear to me that my assignment to his outfit would never take place, not in this lifetime. I reported for training at Fort Bragg, SC, There were aspects of the Training that were different and unique, it was going to be a different type of warfare. One of the more interesting aspects was a program called “Lessons Learned.” The idea was to use trained Intelligence personnel to move with Vietnamese units and gather and sketch everything the Enemy created. Those sketches were of positions, hideouts, booby-traps, and everything that could be sketched. The idea, of course, was to be able to use this with the training of American and Allied troops. The Idea was sound, however, it was not pushed in units to the extent it could have been in the later years of the War. That in itself was a shame, as it could have saved some lives. Other areas of the training that were unique, involved Ambushes, manned, and unmanned. The idea of operating with very little supervision appealed to me. The language classes were given by Vietnamese and we had the basics down pretty good, however, the Instructor inquired about some of my interpretations. In having the enemy come out of Bunkers or holes, my request, came out something to the effect, “This is a pencil.” Oh well, back to pictures in the sand and sign language. During the night time Ambush evaluations at the end of the exercise, two of the evaluators, who were my contacts at Fort Holabird, started talking to us. They were without rank insignias, but wore Jungle fatigues and asked questions, not about ourselves, rather five other individuals, and how we perceived their actions. Later, I was to find out they asked the other five about us. Everyone that was in their particular field seemed to be pretty much of the same type, so I took to calling them “Clones.”* One of our first demonstrations was to watch a B26 Invader low-level bomb a position. They came in at about 500 feet dropped their bombs and fragments hit their aircraft. The plane did a half roll, two men came out, but they were so close to the ground it drove them into the earth, the Invader crashed. Listening to the men shouting over the intercom didn’t help matters much. You hope for the best, but I didn’t expect any survivors. All of the “Advisors” were older soldiers and it took that crash to bring us back to the reality that the peacetime Army was over. Because many of us were what would be considered “Old Soldiers,” a number of the bull sessions, rather than being the “Bravado type,” ended up in an intelligence summary of just who the Vietnamese were. There were a couple of NCOs that referred to them as “Gooks” But I just marked them in my mental book and intended to stay clear of them. What we did learn was we were short on Knowledge of the People, the History, and the “Enemy.” We had some of these concerns satisfied by classes, of the people, their culture, and History. I became fascinated with their culture and spirituality. I targeted on the Language instructor and pumped him for as much common information that usually does not get into the books. One of our Special Forces Instructors, and an older NCO, recommended for those of us that were serious about our duty, to acquire the book called, “The Street Without Joy” by Bernard Fall. It was the story of the demise of the French in Vietnam; most guys read bits and parts of the book and set it aside. (Army people aren’t the most intellectual), anything more than reading dirty sayings on the shit house walls can put a great strain on the brain. Something about the book drew great interest in me, so I read it slowly, not jumping to the last page of each chapter to see if there was a great love scene in the offering like most of the crap books they call enlightening reading. There was something in the demeanor of the Special Forces NCO, which made me believe he gave us a key to some very important Knowledge. When I finished, I sat the book down turned to Charlie B. and said as casually as I could, “Charlie I’ll bet you two hundred bucks we get our ass whipped over there.” Charlie said, “By a bunch of insurgents, Bull shit!” Charlie and I had been in Korea and he had spent time around the French Battalion, attached to the 23rd Infantry Regiment of the 2d Infantry, Division. In the simplest terms, it was the kind of outfit you wanted next to you in a hot fight. They were good. When the Korean War was over we came home for the most part. The French Battalion went to Vietnam and became known as the “Corée Battalion”. Anyway, I read to Charlie how the Corée Battalion was part of what was Group Mobile 100 and how the VC, then called the Viet Minh, had destroyed them in a couple of weeks. Both Charlie and I just sat for a while, I might add here, that I still drank whenever it struck me, but I never let it control me, as in the old days. Then we decided to go get drunk. I knew a lot of the men in the French Battalion and I had a great sadness settle over me. The first major mistake I saw was the underestimating of our opponents.
- “Clones” = later in the war, more commonly known as “Spooks” (Central Intelligence Agency)
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