Frenchy should have been promoted

In 1968 2nd Squadron commander inspected F Troop 6th Armored Cavalry at Fort Meade, Md. After the inspection, the squadron commander had everyone gathered in the Troop day room so he could give a little speech. He gave a little speech. Then he asked, “Does anyone have any questions?”

My hand shot up. The commander said, “Yes, Sergeant?”

I shot up and stood at attention. “Sir, I would like to know why one of my sergeants had highest marks at the recent E6 board but someone else got the stripe?”

The squadron commander said, “You will have to take that up with your troop commander. Does anyone else have a question?”

My sergeant was Robert LaMontagne, of Salem, Mass. All NCOs called him Frenchy. What else do you call someone named LaMontagne?

Frenchy was a good sergeant. He didn’t mess around when a job needed doing. Everybody liked Frenchy, but like should not play a part in promotion.

Frenchy had done three years in the Air Force and then transferred to the Army for two years. He went through Army basic training and infantry AIT. He went to Vietnam, where he was assigned to an infantry company in the 25th Infantry Division. After a few months, he was an infantry squad leader. He once said, proudly, that when he was squad leader, none of his soldiers was killed. One was wounded. That is a good accomplishment, because the 25th was in some heavy stuff.

The guy who got the E6 stripe was the Troop finance clerk. He was drafted. He did a good job, but a troop finance clerk should not hold E6 rank over a qualified combat arms soldier who has a Combat Infantryman Badge.

That is what it was, though; the finance clerk was promoted, Frenchy was not.

Within 15 minutes of the squadron commander leaving the Troop area, I was told to report to the Troop commander. I did, in the proper manner.

The Troop commander said, “Sergeant Merriman, are you familiar with the provisions of Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice?”

I had an inner smirk. So, Captain, you are pissed because I asked a question, and you are going to use the UCMJ as a threat, but you and I both know no provision of UCMJ applies here. Or, you think I am dumb enough to believe your empty threat. Or, you can’t do anything to me, and you know it, but you’re pissed and don’t know what to do.

He asked the question. I said, “Yes, Sir, I am,” with only a hint of smirk in my reply.

“Well, let me reacquaint you with them anyway. You have the right to remain silent. Should you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a trial by court-martial. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. …”

That was where I could have stopped him. I could have said, “Sir, I wish to speak to an attorney.” He then would have had no recourse but to shut up.

I didn’t say that. I let him go on. I think he attempted to chew me out, but I don’t remember a word he said. At the conclusion, he said, “That is all.” I saluted, conducted a sharp about face and left his office.

I still have an inner smirk from that day. And I still know Frenchy should have been promoted.

I dig rock'n'roll bayonet training

On the road to Little Rock last week and I popped in a CD British invasion type, called Mod Rock or something, somebody word-playing or maybe didn’t know those are separate beings, as in the John Lennon pseudo interview in Help, winsome reporterish girl asking, “Are you a Mod or a Rocker?” and Lennon replying, “I’m a mocker.”

The songs were pretty good, 1963-67, of the best of times/worst of times decade. Some had it worse than others – Vietnam in person vs. Vietnam in protest, VC guerrillas or DC cops; sucking some PX beer on small times off with guys your age who, like you, wear jungle fatigues or sucking MJ smoke with a cute thing wearing a mini-skirt or tight jeans, after a hard day of sign-carrying in the continuing struggle against baby killers and other Enemies of The People; going out into the heat every day, busting jungle, watching for people who want to kill you or going to class every day and saying that if we just talked about things we would fix all the shit that’s wrong with the world and getting good smiles from cute things in mini-skirts or tight jeans. Yeah, at times the world sucks.

The CD has a sing-along quality, if you are of an age and still remember all the words. A couple of the songs I specifically remembered because of place and time – Bus Stop heard at Fort Meade in summer 1966, Sunday afternoon riding around that part of Maryland with Gene Johnson and we did our best at ridding the world of a six-pack of whatever beer we had bought at a liquor store in Boomtown; and Sunshine Superman, played on a Vietnamese radio station in December 1966 and the DJ was a sweet-sounding young woman who dedicated all songs to brave allies saving the Vietnamese people from godless Communists. It was to chuckle at, but not to disparage through laughter.

Singing along with some of the songs became remembering other things, related things if you’ve been there.

“There are two kinds of bayonet fighters! The quick and the dead!”

Vertical butt stroke, horizontal butt stroke. Short thrust and recover, MOVE! Long thrust and hold, MOVE!

And you have to yell while butt stroking or thrusting – “YAHH!” or something. If you have to stick somebody with a bayonet at the end of a rifle, chances are you won’t do it silently. And, yelling produces more impetus.

Here’s the deal: You have to BELIEVE in what you are doing. You have to BELIEVE that your bayonet is all that stands between you and death. The quick and the dead, Soldier! The quick and the dead. You have to BELIEVE!

Hand-to-hand combat, you’re squared off against a friend. You learn the fighting position, hand movements, foot and leg movements. Kick, strike, throw, take the enemy’s leverage and use it against him. You’ll throw some and your friend will throw some and you’ll both look like you know what you’re doing. And you yell a lot.

The end.

AWOL

1300 formation, F Troop 6th Armored Cavalry, a pleasant summer day, 1968, Fort Meade, Maryland.

“Sergeant Merriman!”

“Yes, First Sergeant!”

“Is Private Weeble one of your soldiers?”

“Yes, First Sergeant!”

“Private Weeble is presently in custody at the Provost Marshal’s Office, following his arrest for Absent Without Leave. At the conclusion of this formation, you will proceed to the supply room, where you will draw a pistol belt, a pistol holster, a .45-caliber pistol, a full magazine and a set of handcuffs. You will then go to the PMO, where you will secure and handcuff Private Weeble. You will bring Private Weeble to the orderly room. If Private Weeble attempts to escape, you will shoot him. Do you have any questions?”

“No, First Sergeant!”

Private Weeble had made his unauthorized trip home less than a month before. He had surrendered to the nearest Army authority one or two days before his status changed from AWOL to desertion. Private Weeble began his unauthorized leave before I took the platoon, but that timing was of no importance. He was one of my soldiers now.

Private Weeble was from a mountainous part of eastern Kentucky. Had the local draft board not considered him of sufficient physical and psychological nature for the Army, and had the Army not agreed, Weeble would never have had anything to do with the military forces of the United States. He would never have become Private Weeble, but would have remained John Weeble and continued to work at whatever his job had been until such time as he retired. Or he would have gone from job to job, taking whatever was available for a young man of his talents and abilities in his part of Kentucky.

But the local draft board had selected Weeble, told him so in a letter and informed him of date, time and place to report to a bus station, from where he would be taken to the nearest military entrance processing station. Weeble complied with those instructions, just as he complied with instructions at the processing station. He completed several written tests, and he was judged of sufficient physical and psychological character by Army doctors. The Army sent now Private Weeble to Basic Combat Training and then to Advanced Individual Training, where he learned basic repair techniques of wheeled vehicle maintenance.

In addition to his mother and his father, brothers and sisters, Private Weeble left behind in Kentucky a wife. And shortly after reporting to F Troop, 6th Armored Cavalry, Private Weeble was told his wife did not remain home at night. Especially, he was told, his wife did not remain at home on Friday nights and Saturday nights. Someone in his family told him “that woman you married is unfaithful.” More than likely the wife’s escort was some SOB Weeble did not get along with in high school, some SOB whose parents had sufficient influence with the draft board … Well, sometimes it is that way.

Private Weeble wrote to his wife, he telephoned his wife. And one day he said to another soldier, “I’m going home and straighten this out.”

As instructed by the First Sergeant, I got a pistol belt and holster and pistol and full magazine and a set of handcuffs. I walked to the Provost Marshal’s Office and I took custody of Private Weeble. I said to Private Weeble as I handcuffed his hands behind his back, “If you run, I will shoot you.” That was nonsense, and the First Sergeant knew so when he gave that guidance to me. Army rules are quite specific concerning under what conditions deadly force may be used when moving a prisoner. Running is not of itself one of those conditions. Whether Private Weeble knew of the nonsense I neither knew nor cared.

We began our walk back to the troop. About halfway there, Private Weeble said, “Sergeant Merriman, can you loosen these handcuffs? They’re awful tight and they hurt my wrists.”

I didn’t.