Growing up in a small West Texas town during the middle of the Twentieth Century was a very special event. A person’s success was measured by his initiative and ambition, and his dreams could become reality. People were measured by the size of their hearts, rather than the balance of their bank accounts. Jails outnumbered criminals, and churches outnumbered liquor stores. It was a time of high moral values and personal freedoms that will likely never be seen again. This was the time and the place that I was born and spent my youth.

During the summer of 1945, I was six years old. While sitting on the wooden, back porch of Grandma’s house, I watched a brief, summer rain shower pass and leave its signature: the sun was shining against the silver-rimmed clouds, and it formed a beautiful rainbow. I could see that one end of the rainbow touched a small valley behind the house. I had heard the saying, “At the end of the rainbow lies a pot of gold”, and I rushed to find the spot where it touched the earth. To my surprise the rainbow moved each time I came near, only to reappear some distance away. I could pursue it, but I but it always stayed out of my reach. It was an object of beauty that I could never grasp or hold.

Chasing the rainbow was my goal for the first twenty years of my life. I discovered that the riches that I sought were not material things: they were life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I found that there was no pot of gold, and my journey would never end. The first twenty years were gratifying, and I knew that it was a learning experience that would continue throughout my life. I hope to share mine with you. We all have rainbows in our lives: I hope that you are pursuing yours.

***

           June 1953

           Our high school football team was called the “Bulldogs”.  They had competed in the State play-offs the past two years under the direction of a new coaching staff, and last season the team went to the semi-finals before they were defeated.  It seemed that everything had an attachment to the name, “Bulldog”.  Even our youth center was called the Dog House.  I had been forbidden to try out for the team, because my parents said I was too small to play football.  My final year of junior high school was complete, and I would be a freshman in September.  It was an awkward time to be a teenager: I was old enough to date girls, but I was too young to drive a car.  Half of my friends were athletes, but I played in the band, and I watched them play football from the grandstands.  I wanted to dance, but I was too shy to ask someone to teach me.  I must be in teenage purgatory.  Since I had become a freshman in high school, I was old enough to be a member of the Dog House.  I could at least go there and watch the older kids dance.  Maybe I could learn to dance by watching.

                                                                            *

           The admission was only a dime, and the game-room facilities were free.  It was a good place to meet my friends on weekend nights: not to mention girls without dates.  I didn’t need a ride to the Dog House: it was only five city blocks from my house, and I could walk.  It was open every Friday and Saturdays nights, except for holidays. The youth center was a part of the Carnegie Library building.  Most of the second story of the building was a wooden dance floor, adjacent to a small room with tables that were used for card games. The basement was equipped with pool, ping pong, and shuffleboard tables.  Smoking, drinking, and bad language were not allowed, and there were two adult sponsors who made sure that everyone abided by the rules. This was not just one of the places that high school kids congregated on the weekend nights: it was THE place.  Since I was a freshman in high school, it was time that I started acting like one of the older guys.  After all, I would graduate in four years.

                                                                           *

           While all the teenage girls were spending hours preparing themselves to go out for the night, I was ready to go in ten minutes.  I had to check myself out in the mirror (that took another ten minutes) to make sure that I really looked as cool as I thought. No doubt about it: I was cool.  I made a final mirror-check of my muscleless, 135 pound frame, to make sure everything was in place: the cow-lick on the top of my head was plastered down with Brylcreem; my short-sleeve shirt had one button that was open at the top, exposing my hair-less chest; and both sleeves were rolled up two turns so the girls could admire the 13-inch biceps that were growing on my bony arms.  The tail of my shirt was not tucked in my pants, and the cuffs on my Levis were rolled up two turns: this would allow me to show off my new, black penny-loafers and nylon socks.  After a final glance in the mirror I felt good about the way I looked; I was in style; and I was ready to mingle with the masses.

           The Dog House was open from 7:30 until 11:00 P.M. on Saturday, so I left my house at8:15: I didn’t want to arrive too early.  It was a very warm night in June; the sun had set a half-hour earlier; and the street lights were coming on as I reached the youth center.  After my ten minute walk, I saw that there were cars parked on both sides of the street in front of the building and on the side street adjacent to the building.  There were no parking places for a city block in either direction.  It must be standing room only.  My suspicion was confirmed as walked up the steps and went inside.  I heard the juke box before I opened the door:  Jo Stafford was singing, You Belong to Me.  I dropped a dime in the jar on the sponsor’s desk; I took one look at the packed dance floor; and I decided to go downstairs and shoot a few games of pool.  Maybe some of the people upstairs will leave early. 

           When I walked into the game room, I thought I had walked into my class reunion.  Most of the boys that I ran around with were already there.  There weren’t many girls in the game room; many of them were dating upper classmen and were likely upstairs.  I picked the least-crooked cue stick from the wall rack and waited my turn for an empty pool table.  The game equipment was in ill-repair after many years of teenage use.  The pool table felt was torn in places; some of the pool balls were dented from being dropped on the concrete floor; and the soft-paneled, acoustic ceiling was riddled with pool-stick punctures from frustrated players, despite the large-lettered sign on the wall: “DO NOT PUNCH HOLES IN CEILING WITH POOL CUES”… Yes, I remember being frustrated a few times.

            Playing “8-Ball” and “Scratch” were no longer my idea of entertainment.  Out of the corner of my eye I watched the clock on the wall slowly move, as I played several less-than-stimulating games of pool, ping pong, and shuffleboard.  These games were a lot of fun in past years, but my priorities in life had changed as suddenly as my voice.  It was time for me to make a change from the pool hall to the dance hall – an evolution from the basement to the upper room … or something like that.  At ten o’clock I put my cue stick in the rack on the wall and walked upstairs to the dance floor. 

           Tony Bennett was crooning Rags to Riches, as I gently elbowed my way through the first and second rows of people that were circling the dance floor. The heat in the room was intense: there was no air conditioning, although the windows on three sides of the room were wide open. Some people were sitting on the edges of the open windows. The room was packed with perspiring teenagers, but I hardly noticed the temperature: I was in a state of awe.  Most of my football heroes were there, and they didn’t seem to mind that a younger kid who played in the band was in their group.  I stood next to a senior lineman; I knew him from his picture in the yearbook. He must have been a foot taller and outweighed me by one hundred pounds.  Mother was probably right when she said I wasn’t big enough to play.

           There were many of my friends from the band and the pep squad on the dance floor; it was a composite of the entire high school – from freshmen to seniors – and everyone was friendly.  It was like being in a large family of teenagers.  The dance floor was crowded during every song; people were feeding quarters into the juke box, as they waited to hear their favorite song; and everyone was having a great time.  Even though the volume was wide open, the juke box was often muted by the loud talk and the laughter of the crowd.  No one seemed bothered by the intense heat and noise on the dance floor.  I tried not to show my tinge of envy when I saw the several upper-classmen that were dating girls in my class.  They were old enough to have their driver’s license.  My envy was short-lived, when I realized that I would be taking their place next year: I would have my own license.  Sixteen was the legal driving age in Texas, but if my parents signed a “hardship waiver”, and I could get my driver’s license when I was fifteen.  The state would allow me the license, because both of my parents worked.   I was already working on the details.

            One thing was certain: I would not be able to learn how to dance tonight.  If I were brave enough to step out on the dance floor, I would be trampled into the saw dust on the floor.  The people who were dancing looked like they had just finished rehearsing for American Bandstand. The “Jitterbug” was the dance of choice for the fast tunes, and the older couples looked like professionals: they must have danced together for several years. When a fast tune was played on the juke box, the crowd moved back and watched the better dancers. It didn’t take long to recognize those couples.  They often got applause and jesting,   cat-calls from the crowd: it was exciting to watch.   

           It was ten minutes until closing, and I decided to leave early and avoid the rush after the dance ended.  I walked outside into the clean, night air.  Half-way down the block I could still hear the laughter and the fading strains of the words of Patti Page: How Much is that Doggy in the Window?  I walked across a familiar set of railroad tracks that crossed the street and the sidewalk. The music from the Dog House had stopped, and I could hear voices outside the building, as well as laughter and car doors slamming.  There would likely be a mad dash to a hamburger drive in called, the “Super Dog”.  It was where the late night crowd gathered before taking home their dates.  I will be among that crowd before too long.

           Harmon Park was only a block from my house, and I stopped and sat down in one of the swings.  I had spent thousands of hours playing here as a child; it was always one of my favorite places.  I watched the cars go by, and I wondered if I would ever drive a car, learn to dance, or take a date to the Dog House like my other friends.  Two things were certain: it was past eleven o’clock, and my mother knew what time the Dog House closed.  She has a dog house of her own.  I’ll have to deal with those other problems at another time.

                                                                     *

          …I later got my “hardship” driver’s license at 15; I learned to dance one night on a concrete slab at a Lutheran Church park, and I took my date (who was my dancing instructor) to the Dog House.  It was a wonderful time to be young, to dream, and to see your dreams become reality…

                                                                   *** 

August 1957

It was less than a month before I would leave for my freshman year in college, and my good friend, Andy Swenson, invited me to an over-night fishing trip with him at the SMS Ranch at Throckmorton. I was no stranger to the ranch; I had worked there with Andy during the terrible drought of the summer of 1955. The drought had been broken by torrential rains during the spring months of 1957, and this would be my first trip back to the ranch in two years. He told me that the rain had filled all the reservoirs; the native grasses had returned to the pastures; and ranching operations had returned to normal. It was practically a desert in 1955. I was anxious to see the recovery of some of the familiar places where we had worked during the terrible drought, and I was also looking forward to fishing in one of the best private lakes in the Texas. It couldn’t get better than this.

*

Shortly after lunch on Saturday afternoon we left home for the fifty mile drive to the ranch. As we drove east on our way out of Haskell, Texas, we drove across railroad tracks that crossed the highway. This was the place where two years ago we spent the better part of a week unloading prairie hay in 105 degree weather from steel boxcars to feed the starving cattle at the ranch. The heat had been so intense inside the boxcars that the sap from the hay was oozing from their stems, creating a sickening, sweet smell. The intense heat, the smell, and ten-hour days had made it a very unpleasant place to work, but we knew it was one of many jobs that had to be done. I noticed that the tracks were unkept, and the siding was empty, as we continued down US Highway 380 toward the ranch.

There was a familiar sign inside the corner of the pasture about five miles down the highway that read, “ SMS Throckmorton Ranch – Swenson Land and Cattle Co”. This was the southwest corner of 106,000 acres; it was still one of the largest ranches in Texas. It would take a mounted rider the better part of a day to ride across the 20 square miles that were enclosed by well-maintained, barbed-wire fence. As far as I could see in any direction there were gentle, rolling hills that were completely barren of trees; there were windmills and watering facilities; and there were scattered groups of Hereford cattle that were grazing on a new crop of native grasses that had emerged since the spring rains. It was a beautiful sight. When I worked here two years ago during the drought, there was very little grass in the pastures. Almost all feeding was supplemental: it had to be hauled to the animals in the pastures. What a beautiful sight to see nature moving back in balance.

We turned off of the main highway onto the narrow paved FM 222. It was the only other paved road on the ranch, and we drove about two miles to reach the headquarters, which was situated very near to the center of the ranch. As we approached I could see the barn and the main corral, the bunk house, and the cook house. The foreman’s home was about 100 yards on the opposite side of the road, and our first stop was at his house. The foreman, “Poss” Murray, knew in advance that we were coming. Even though he knew both of us, it was western protocol to announce our arrival. All ranch employees were naturally suspicious of strangers. Although it is not common, cattle-rustling still occurs on ranches of this size. Less that a hundred years ago, cowboys with saddle guns would ride the fence lines to protect the ranch from intruders and rustlers. This was truly a country that was rich in pioneer lore and western heritage.

We were planning to stay the night at the “party cabin” which was located on a large lake that was a short distance from headquarters, but first we decided to look at some of the familiar places that we knew when we worked there. We drove back across the road to the headquarters area. The barn with its large hay loft behind the main corral was unchanged, as was the cook shack, where we used to eat the best food in Texas three times a day. I would bet money that the food served there was still the best, and the manners of the cowboys were unchanged. I noticed that the bunk house where we lived in the summer of 1955 had been renovated: the southern screen porch had been enclosed, and there were refrigerated air conditioners that were mounted in the windows. There was a tall aluminum pole outside the bunk house with a television antenna attached. This place had everything! When I lived there the only air conditioner was a gentle southern breeze through the porch screen that cooled the bunk house around 3:00 AM – just before the cow bells rang in the darkness at 4:30 to welcome me to a new work day. Television was something that I watched at home for two hours on Sunday nights when there wasn’t anything else to do. Today the ranch hands had all the comforts of home. I liked it the old way.

The lake and the party cabin were three miles west of ranch headquarters, and we drove past the foreman’s house down a familiar dirt road, stopping only to open two gates and to let a small herd of cows cross the road in front of us. We approached the lake from the north, and we could see the limestone boulders of the dam before we could see the cabin. When I worked at the ranch I had driven within 100 yards of the cabin, but I had only seen it from a distance. I discovered that the “cabin” was something more that a fishing shack when Andy and I drove up beside it in the car: it was awesome. It was a beautiful stone house atop the west hill that was overlooking an impoundment of 5 acres of dark blue water. I knew that it had been well stocked with fish many years ago, and this small lake had never gone dry, even during the drought: it was a fisherman’s dream. The cabin was twice the size of my house, and it had every convenience of home except a telephone. The luxuries included a large stone fireplace, a porch that overlooked the lake, and all the fishing equipment imaginable. Shelter, food, and a great place to fish! What more could two young, sporting teenagers need? I saw the liquor cabinet out of the corner of my eye. Yes, it was loaded. I had to remind myself that we came here to fish.

It was mid-afternoon by the time we got our fishing gear collected and walked down the wooded stairs to the floating dock that was on the shoreline. We carried an outboard motor from the cabin, and attached it to an aluminum boat that was tied to the dock. After a few mighty pulls on the starter cord, the motor sputtered and came alive. We steered the boat to a group of submerged tree tops that were sticking out of the water near a ledge of rocks on the far side of the lake. We fished with lures near the shore line until almost sunset and only caught a few small bass that we threw back in the lake. The sky was clear; the wind was almost calm; and the temperature was in the middle 90’s. It was a typical August afternoon, and we were getting hungry, as well as dehydrated. The sun was hidden behind the cabin as we tied the boat to the dock and walked up the wooden stairs to the cabin. The cold, refrigerated air from the cabin met me at the door, and I walked inside and let my body melt into the soft cushions of one of the sectional sofas in the den. I heard Andy rattling glasses in the kitchen area; he walked over and filled my hand with an ice-cold, Lone Star, long-neck bottle of beer. What better way could we plot our next fishing strategy? I could never think clearly, when I was thirsty. During the next half hour we indulged in a couple more “mind rejuvenators”, and we plotted our fishing strategy for the next day.

As we were approaching the cabin earlier in the day, I noticed an abundance of jumbo grasshoppers on the dirt road. These would make good fish bait, so we found a large glad jar, punched air holes in the lid, and used it as a live bait container. The grasshoppers were plentiful around the cabin area (as were rattlesnakes), and we were careful where we put our hands as we caught our live bait. We soon had had jarful of bait for our trip on the lake the next morning. I took the jar down to the dock, set it in the boat, and returned to the cabin. It was getting dark, and I didn’t want to encounter a rattlesnake without a flashlight.

We sat outside on the porch and watched the moon slowly rise over the lake, and we talked about all the many good times that we had when we worked together at the ranch. It was easier living and working here since the rains came: forage for the livestock was plentiful; the reservoirs were full; and wildlife had made a quick recovery in the area. We could hear the splash of fish that were feeding on insects on the surface of the lake, the occasional bark from a pack of coyotes that were roaming the hills, and the relaxing chorus of ever-present crickets that serenaded the night. We planned to get an early start on the lake in the morning, so we went inside and rolled out our sleeping bags on the cabin floor. We could have just as easily slept on the soft couches that were in the den, but we had spent several years camping out and sleeping on the ground at the river. I guess that old habits are hard to break.

A booming clap of thunder woke us shortly after six in the morning; a violent thunderstorm had moved formed over night. The wind was causing white-capped waves to crash into the rocks on the lake dam, and by the lightning flashes we could see marble-sized hailstones that were bouncing in the yard within the heavy downpour. The storm was over as suddenly as it began. The sun began to rise behind the rapidly moving storm, producing a silver lining atop the fringe of cumulous clouds, and a wide rainbow formed to the north. Water was still dripping from the roof of the cabin, and the wind became calm, causing the surface of the lake to look like a mirror. It was beautiful. We selected fly rods from the cabin fishing gear, loaded the rest of our equipment in the boat, and started back across the lake toward the area that we fished the day before.

We tied the bow of the boat to the top of a submerged tree and began preparing our fishing lines. We both baited our ten–foot fly rods with the live grasshoppers. I noticed that that storm had knocked insects down into the water, and fish were feeding on the surface of the water. We were fishing from opposite side of the boat, and almost immediately we both had strikes on our lines. They were undoubtedly good sized fish: they were bending the fly rods double, as we fought them to the side of the boat. We both pull in large channel catfish that weighed from three to five pounds each. We were in a school of catfish that were in a feeding frenzy: as soon as we caught a fish and put our lines back in the water, we would have an immediate strike. It seemed that we had a boatful of fish; then they stopped biting as suddenly as they had started – almost the same way the storm had done that morning. We pulled our lines and started back to the cabin. On the way back I admired some of the smaller things of nature that many people miss: a great blue heron, walking on its stilt-like legs in the shallows near the shore, a belted king fisher sitting in a dead treetop, waiting to dive on an unsuspecting minnow – they were all around us and too numerous to count.

We loaded the car with our gear and a trunk load of catfish for the return trip home. As we drove down the road toward the highway gate, I tried to enjoy the scenery, but I felt a small feeling of sadness, knowing that I would likely never have the opportunity to return here. A person doesn’t come to a place this remote by chance. As we left the ranch and I opened the gate at the highway intersection, a large covey of quail took flight from their cover under a nearby lotebush. It was just another assurance to me that the terrible drought had passed, and living things had retaken the land. I might never return to this place, but it would always be a part of me: I had seen it in bad times and in good, as did our pioneer ancestors many years ago, and they were people great vision; theirs was much greater than mine. It is something that an outsider would not understand: this is the Texas that I love.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

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 50^th 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.

*

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 2^nd 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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