War Games
War Games
October 1958
The ninth week of my army basic training at Fort Hood, Texas, was about to begin. I had endured eight weeks of mental and physical abuse since the day that I stepped off the bus with the other green recruits and was greeted by the First Sergeant who snarled: “you peeples is the dumbest bunch of (expletive) that I has ever seed”. He might have been illiterate, but he knew how to get my attention. From the time that my boots hit the pavement in front of the 50th Infantry barracks, training had been at a frantic pace. Our cadre men were all combat veterans, and they quickly turned us “mama’s boys” into raving fanatics. I had gained almost 30 pounds since training began, and I was in the best physical shape in my life. My training was in its final stages: I had been through the gas chambers; I had qualified at the rifle range and thrown live hand grenades; and I had crawled through the infiltration range under live machine gun fire. There was only one more phase of training, and it was to simulate actual combat conditions. Our unit would spend a week in the field playing war games.
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Our company of about 280 men spent the weekend preparing our equipment for the new exercise. We were given time off on Sunday to attend church services in the chapel across the street, but all of our other activities were confined to the barracks. I could hear the music from the juke box in the PX that was two blocks down the street, but I hadn’t been allowed to go there or anywhere else without permission for eight weeks. Through the barracks windows I could hear Tommy Edwards singing, “It’s All in the Game”, and I fantasized about the cold beer that was sold there. We were told that only real soldiers were allowed to spend free time in the PX, and we weren’t soldiers. Our cadre would send two men twice a week to buy shaving supplies, cigarettes, and anything else that we needed. Living in the barracks was like being in prison, except this prison was full of rifles and bayonets. I sat on my foot locker and prepared my 40 pound, full-field pack, complete with flashlight, shelter-half, and entrenching tool. It seemed that I had packed all of my military issue. I was ready. Let the games begin.
Reveille was at 0330, and after morning chow we made formation in the parking lot and boarded the awaiting deuce-and-a-half trucks that were to take us to an area that was several miles north of the barracks. It was barely daylight when we reached our destination, and I noticed that the rough terrain was boulder-strewn, rolling hills with cactus and cedar trees. The topography was similar to the area that was behind Grandma’s house. We were familiar with the maneuver area: we had been previously briefed on the two-square mile area using topographic maps. The area was primarily used for training tank crews of the 2nd Armored Division, but there were no armored vehicles in sight. Our headquarters consisted of a mess tent, an aid station, and a portable generator that was in place beneath large, camouflaged netting. We were told to stand down in formation for a final briefing. This seemed somewhat strange: we were about to spend a week learning how to kill, while using a set of rules that were enforced by referees at a sporting event. How else could you control several hundred men in a strange place that were trying to kill each other?
We were the good guys; we wore blue arm bands on our right arms; and our objective was to kill or capture all of the bad guys. The bad guys, or aggressors, were easy to recognize. They wore the same uniforms that we did, except that their helmet liners had a single ridge on the top that looked like a Mohawk strip. They wore red arm bands, and their objective was to kill or capture all of us. The rules were simple enough. The referees were non-commissioned officers, and they were everywhere. They wore white helmets and white arm bands, and they carried whistles. They determined if a road or a bridge was passable; they ruled on everything, including who was alive or dead. If you were captured you were placed in a prisoner’s compound; if you were killed the referee took your arm band, and you were sent back to the barracks. Your war was over, but not your duties when you got back.
We walked in single file to pick up our ammunition from the boxes that were stacked in front of the watchful eye of our supply sergeant: we each drew a bandolier of 8-round, M-1 rifle clips that were loaded with blank cartridges, and we each drew 4 dummy hand grenades. Before setting up our tents in the bivouac area, we were reminded once more, “Remember, men, when you shoot at someone, be sure that you point the muzzle away from his body. The gas pressure from the muzzle blast of an M-1 rifle will blow a hole in a man’s chest at 10 feet.” A man could get seriously killed playing these kinds of games.
Our platoon leader showed us the perimeters of our bivouac area, and we set up our pup tents among a thick grove of cedar trees. It was a bit cramped having two people share a tiny tent, but it was at least shelter from the weather. I found out later that one of us would be on patrol or guard duty most of the time. Having this additional space for short periods of time allowed me to get 3 to 4 hours of sleep at night. Although the sky was clear we dug small drainage ditches to divert water away from our tents in case it rained: it was standard procedure to do this any time that we moved. We also covered our tents with limbs and cedar branches for concealment. When this was done properly, the tent blended in well with the surrounding vegetation.
It took the better part of the first day to secure our equipment and get oriented in our new home. We were fortunate that we had hot food supplied by our field kitchen. We stood in line and filled our metal mess kits; we ate our chow, sitting on the ground with our legs crossed. The hot food was better than the canned rations that were available. There were several canvas water bags suspended from tripods that were available for drinking and personal hygiene. We had to draw water in our helmets and shave every morning with the double-edged safety razors in our packs. This was done every day, whether we needed it or not. I was lucky: I was 19 years old and still had peach fuzz on my face; some of the older men with heavy beards had lacerations after a few days in the field.
Late in the afternoon of the first day, we gathered around our platoon leader for a briefing. He unrolled a large map of the “war zone” that we had studied before we left for maneuvers. The map was a rough, aerial photograph of the area. Cow House Creek was the only stream, and it bisected the area shown on the map. The Aggressors were on the north side, we were on the south side. There were a few dirt roads that wandered aimlessly and often crossed each other. These were roads were previously used by tanks, but we were assured that there would be no armor or artillery used by either side. The “War” would officially start at 1800 hours (6 P.M.), and we would have guards on duty around our perimeter around the clock. Our platoon would send the second squad on a reconnaissance probe of the enemy after dark at 2000 hours; third squad (mine) would pull guard duty of the perimeter for the first 24 hours. We were dismissed, and I went back to my tent: I wanted to be sure that all my equipment was ready before dark.
I slid feet first into my tent, and I wrapped myself in a wool blanket fully clothed. My rifle was parallel to my body with the muzzle slightly above my head and pointing outside the shelter. I wrapped my field jacket around my helmet, and I used it as a pillow. It was pitch dark, but I could see the millions of stars in the sky. It was quiet except for occasional rifle fire fight in the distance, followed by the tweet of a referee’s whistle. I guess they have started keeping score. Weariness of the long day had set in, and I dozed off to sleep. This ground is a lot harder than my bunk bed.
The blinding light from the Sergeant of the Guard’s flashlight hit me in the face, and the shock brought me outside the tent and to my feet. I shouldered my M-1 and followed him in the darkness to relieve the sentry that was on duty. There were two sentries around our perimeter. The second sentry was about 50 yards from me, and we each had to slowly walk back and forth in a line to protect a hundred yard perimeter on the north side of our camp. Although we both had flashlights, we tried not to use them for fear of detection. I could only see his silhouette when we approached each other at about ten yards distance; then we would then both turn and walk in opposite directions. Sometime after midnight a half-full moon rose above the cedar trees, and it partially illuminated my area. There was no wind, but the chilly night air of late October cut through my field jacket; my fingers were getting cold inside my gloves. It seemed that I had been on duty a long time. It must be getting close to relief time. I hate guard duty: it is such a bore.
My hunter’s instinct told me that something moved before I heard the noise. Sure enough, I saw the movement in the opening between the cedar trees, and I stepped back into the dense over-growth of a tree that was beside me. I watched as a man slowly stepped into the clearing, and I could see the silhouettes of several more men behind him. No doubt about it; the point man was followed by a patrol, walking in a “V” formation, but I couldn’t tell how many men were with him. I let the patrol walk out into the clearing, like ducks approaching my blind. It startled the point man who was only 10 yards from me when I challenged him with the password. I clicked off the safety, and I put the rifle to my shoulder with the muzzle pointed about 10 feet above his head. He gave me the wrong counter-sign, and all hell broke loose. Fire shot ten feet in the air from my muzzle as I emptied my 8-round clip, and I heard the familiar “Cling” sound as my rifle ejected the empty, metal clip from the M-1’s receiver.
Meanwhile, a referee who was wildly waving his flashlight came running into the fire fight. Our other sentry appeared and opened fire, as I jammed a second clip into my rifle. The referee was waving his arms as if he had just ruled an incomplete pass in a football game. Finally, after he yelled “cease fire” about ten times, it was very quiet- despite the loud ringing in my ears. We got them all: the bad guys never got off a single round. There were 10 Aggressors in the patrol; the referee ruled that four were dead; and we shuffled off six prisoners to our stockade. The Sergeant of the Guard appeared with my relief. He gave me an “atta boy”, patted me on the back, and I went back to my tent. It was hard to sleep after all that excitement, but I managed to doze off for a few minutes before reveille.
As I field stripped my rifle one afternoon, I was talking to a buddy in my squad who was from a large city in New Jersey. He confided in me that he had hardly slept since we had been in the field. When I asked him what the problem was, he told me that he was afraid of the dark! He explained that in the large city where he grew up there were always lights burning, and that he had never been in a dark place for any length of time. I thought about it, and it made sense. It didn’t make him a lesser man. I had spent many hours of my life, running around in heavy brush at night. There were many times that I had close calls with poisonous snakes, and I never thought much about it. It was something that I often dealt with, growing up in Texas.
The country around Fort Hood was home to rattlesnakes, copperheads, water moccasins, and coral snakes- their bites were all potentially deadly. All snakes are cold- blooded animals that go into hibernation during the winter months. During the late fall they seek warm places to sun themselves in the daytime, until cold weather causes them to seek dens in which to hibernate for the winter. The second day that we were playing war games, a buddy of mine found a large copperhead snake lying on the wool blanket inside his tent. He killed the snake, but it scared him so much that he slept on the ground outside his tent for the duration of the maneuvers. I would have likely done the same thing.
On our last night of war games my squad was picked to make a reconnaissance patrol into the Aggressor’s territory. We started preparing ourselves just before sundown: we taped our dog tags together so that they wouldn’t rattle; we tied small dark strips of cloth around our thighs to keep our pant legs from rubbing together; and we covered our faces and the backs of our hands with boot black. When it was dark we walked about one-half mile through friendly lines and approached Cow House Creek. This was the jumping off place; the enemy controlled the other side. We forded the creek in the darkness. In the middle of the stream the chest-deepwater was bitterly cold. Twelve of us (and yes, a referee with a glaring white helmet followed us) reached the other side of the creek and proceeded down a narrow, winding road. We were walking single file, and I was third behind the point man. Something told me that we were being set up. Audie Murphy wouldn’t lead his men down a road in a straight line.
The point man walked into a booby trap; his foot hit a piano wire that was stretched across the road; and it set off a trip flare that illuminated the area as if the sun had come up. Rifle fire erupted from both sides of the road; we didn’t fire a shot; and the referee ran up the road blowing his whistle. He declared that our entire squad had been wiped out. He took our soaking wet, blue arm bands and told us to return to headquarters for transportation back to the base. The war was over for twelve recruits. Most of the things that we did felt foolish at the time, but what other way could a man train to kill another man without pulling the trigger on a live round? War games were the closest training simulation to a combat situation that was available. I griped and complained about how bad things were in the field; it was a walk in the park when compared to the real thing.
The only combat scars that I have are razor nicks on my face. I am an un-tested soldier that is living in an uncertain world. I am proud to be an American soldier who is only a small cog in the most powerful war machine on earth.
…To all the brave men that answered the call and paid the price…Thanks.
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