In June of 1960, I turned nineteen. Back then, all of us guys were
concerned about the draft, and I had been thinking about it since
registering. Those friends who were in college were safe, as long as
their grades were good, but I had chosen to go to work right out of
high school and take a few classes at the University of Louisville at
night, until I had a better idea of what the heck I wanted to do with
my life. Vietnam had begun to heat up, and when Lyndon Johnson became
President, it would worsen.
My first real job was working at American Air Filter as a mail boy. At
the time, the Company had its headquarters in Louisville, where it
employed some 600+ employees. I was pleased to find that they also paid
for college classes that were business-oriented, and I took advantage
of it. My job also allowed me to meet and get to know everyone who
worked for AAF, and learn about their job. I was amazed at how quickly
I got to know practically every person.
The mail boy job was pretty difficult, as I had to make rounds twice
per day, to hand out U.S. mail as well as Inter-office correspondence.
We received post office deliveries twice a day, and it was often quite
a large volume that required sorting. I quickly learned to open the
mail, date stamp it, then hold the stack in my left arm, and with the
aid of a rubber thumb on my right hand, quickly “shoot” the mail into
the proper department box (about sixty boxes, including the managers
and foremen of three plants). I could aim and throw, or shoot a piece
of mail right into the department box in a split second. Afterward, I
would put a rubber band around each stack and ensure they were in
proper order for my delivery rounds. I then had to pick up the entire
stack and begin rounds (strictly arm carry, no delivery basket to
push). During rounds, I would pick up both outgoing and inter-office
mail, then afterward, return to my basement office, sort it, and start
all over again. I also took any outgoing mail to our mail department
for delivery to the post office. Lastly, I would drive the company
truck to our Famco division, about ten miles from the head office, and
deliver and pick up all of their outgoing mail for processing. I really
enjoyed that part, driving the Ford, over the cab van. It was a
straight stick, and I usually had to make the trip pretty fast. I have
no idea how I managed to avoid getting a speeding ticket.
My early job experience may have helped me discover how much I loved
dealing with people on both a business and personal level. I think it
was a hidden milestone in my life, a beneficial beginning to what would
later become a career in marketing and sales.
I also credit my first job for keeping me physically fit, doing a lot
of walking up and down three stories in the home office, and through
two large plants on the company grounds. I often carried big loads (I
didn't know paper could weigh that much). In other words, though I
didn't know it, this job was fairly good basic training for whatever I
decided to do in my career. Later, I also learned how it helped me deal
with conflicts in a completely different setting. The job was
a treasure trove.
One of the first AAF employees I met was Parker Levan, who worked in
the sales department. My introduction to Parker came through normal
events, as I made my mail rounds. I learned that Parker was an Army
Reserve Captain, and that soon gave me an unexpected opportunity.
Parker was a fun-loving, cigar-smoking guy who quickly became a good
friend. He was always recruiting for his Reserve unit, and one day, he
told me there was an opening in his unit, the 2148th U.S. Army
Garrison. He invited me to join him at his next Reserve meeting, and he
said he could get me into the open slot if I wanted to join. I didn't
really have any expectations, but because I had been an officer in my
high school ROTC Regiment and a member of the Louisville Male High
military marching band, my interest was heightened. Of course, I also
knew I was likely to get called up at any time, since I was a 1A
status. This was a way to fulfill my military obligation, and it was
dropping right into my lap, and before I knew it, I had my right hand
raised; I was the new guy in the 2148th (later, it became the 5010th
garrison, when the medical teams from the old Nicolas hospital in
Louisville were detached from the unit). I was told my orders would be
issued in a few days, and I would be scheduled to leave for basic
training at Fort Knox the first week in August. That meant I would need
to inform my boss at AAF the very next day, and that would give him two
weeks’ notice. I had been with the company for about a year, and now
here I was, leaving for six months of active duty. I was a little
concerned.
The former mail boy, who had been promoted to the accounting
department, was not too pleased to learn I would be gone for 6 months.
He told me that Mr. MacDonald always “borrowed” the former mail boy
when available, and he was sure that he would be the one carrying the
mail while I was gone. Unbeknownst to me, Parker had given my boss a
heads-up, and he had already hired my replacement. Parker was a
salesman, and the rascal knew I could be sold. Mr. Mac told me I would
be training the new guy during the remaining two weeks, and when I
returned, I would be placed in a new job in the Order Department. My
head was spinning, and I had not prepared myself mentally for what was
to come in just two weeks.
The good news for me, if you want to call it that, was my ROTC
training. I had already learned about everything I was going to face,
including work on the firing range. I had qualified as an expert
marksman and had led a platoon of men in my senior year. I was ready to
get it on and get it over. On August 10th, 1960, I boarded a bus with a
bunch of guys I would get to know really well during the next 60 days.
Most of them had flown in from all over the U.S, and the bus ride was a
pretty short trip to Fort Knox. When we got off the bus, the hazing
began (that’s how I would describe it). Since I had been in the band at
Male and had gone to summer band camp every year, I was used to the
yelling and screaming going on, so while I could see the stress on the
faces of my fellow soldiers, I just rolled with the punches. Now, I
wouldn’t compare my high school band camp experience to Army basic
training (basic was way more physically demanding), but I had heard all
the screaming before, and had delivered the same after my freshman year
in ROTC; so when our regular army platoon sergeant asked who had
completed ROTC in high school, I raised my hand confidently, and I was
chosen as assistant platoon sergeant of the first platoon. I credit my
overly large fatigues, and the wind, for making my 6’2,” 130 lb. frame
appear a lot larger than it was. He must have thought I weighed at
least 175 pounds when I raised my hand, just as a gust of wind hit. I
was glad to wear the stripes, but there was more work to the job than I
had imagined.
My fellow platoon sergeant, Dave Frampton, and I, had private quarters,
and we had four squads of men in our barracks, none of whom, not a one,
had ever been exposed to military training of any kind. Thankfully,
Dave was a big man, because half of my platoon could have whipped my
ass if they chose to do so. There was so much to learn, including
qualifying on the firing range, being able to break down a
nine-pound M1 rifle, and reassemble it, as well as become physically
fit, and learn to march, amongst other things. It was those “other
things” that became a bit more taxing at times.
David and I split the workload evenly, each agreeing to be responsible
for two squads. It may not seem like a lot, but we had to be sure our
guys could pass inspection at the drop of a hat. We also had to be sure
that Army issue t-shirts and boxer shorts, and sox, were rolled neatly,
boots and shoes spit shined, belt buckle and other brass polished, and
uniform and fatigues neat, with creases. The most critical thing was to
observe each person and be sure they were psychologically fit to manage
what they were about to go through. I spent too much time worrying
about my guys, and I know I spent more time with them than David did
with his squads. Some years later in life, tests I took revealed that I
am what is known as an “analytical-expressive” person. In other words,
if you asked me what time it is, I would gladly tell you how to make a
clock, but in very expressive terms of course. On the other hand, the
extra time I spent with my squads endeared me to them. In other words,
I became a resource to help them through the crap they were facing.
I had several problems with guys whom I learned to love over the 60
days we were together, but my favorite was, “Bolero,” a young man from
the backwoods of Pennsylvania. I was surprised to learn that he could
neither read nor write. In fact, one of my favorite things was to write
letters to his mother for him. I was his scribe and also coached him on
what to say. His bunk was right outside my room, and there was a small
knot hole between his bunk and my room through which he used to dictate
his letters. He would knock on the wall and say, “Cowles, I need to
write mama, can you help me?” I never turned him away; I just felt
sorry for him, and I often wondered how he got into the Army. His
mother had told him to write often, and he wanted to obey her wishes.
Bolero was about 5’9”, and more than a little overweight. He had a
typical Pennsylvania coal country accent, with many words having an “o”
sound. He would often say things like, “I really appreciate youse
helpin' me out,” and often add, “I don't know what ta say.” I would
coach him, saying, “Listen now, all your mama wants to know is that you
are okay. Why don't you tell her what you did today?” He really kind of
left it up to me, but he always wanted me to read it back to him, and
he would suggest additions now and then. He had brought several books
of stamps with him, and I always let him stamp the envelope and be
responsible for mailing it. Of course, I would also read his mother's
letters to him, always late at night, through that little knothole. It
was our secret. I did not want him to be embarrassed, so we did it
quietly.
I remember the funniest thing that happened to Bolero was when our
Company Commander, a First Lieutenant, called him over, and handed him
his dog leash and told him to walk his dog. The dog was a six-month-old
Doberman Pincer, which we called “black devil.” Our Company Commander
would let him off-leash when we were on a force march, and he would
weave in and out of the troops, surprising and tripping us, making it
really difficult to concentrate and keep from falling. That particular
day, I could tell from the look on Bolero’s face that he was scared of
this dog, but he had been ordered to walk this animal, so I could not
interfere. I was concerned, but I just crossed my fingers and hoped for
the best. Next thing I knew, Bolero came running to me, almost crying,
and said, “The Lieutenant's dawg got loose. What am I gonna do, Cowles?
Help me, help me.” I grabbed him, and we headed for headquarters. I
said, “Come on Bolero, we have to tell the Lieutenant, then we'll form
a search party and find that Devil dog.” Much to Bolero’s relief, the
Lieutenant did not blow up. He asked Bolero where they were when the
dog got loose, and it was close by; our search party found him running
and playing around the barracks, near to our own, and Bolero could not
stop thanking me.
The other person who caused me the most genuine problem was named
Young. Funny how we called everyone by their sir’s name. Dave was the
only guy I knew by his first name. Young had not yet taken a
shower, and we had been in basic training for over two weeks. Anyone
who has had this kind of training knows that you have to take a shower
every day. It is rigorous, and you sweat constantly. Someone in his
squad told me about him, so I approached him. He was sitting apart on
the floor near some of the other men, and not surprisingly, they had
distanced themselves from him. I sat down next to him and asked him how
he was doing, and I was almost knocked over by the odor. He
showed no signs of depression; in fact, he played right into my hands.
He said, “Hey, you wanna wrestle? Nobody wants to wrestle me.” I didn’t
know exactly how I was going to do it, but I was going to get him in
the shower, even if I had to wrestle him, and when he grabbed at me, I
surprised him by quickly pinning him, and then asked some of the guys
there on the floor playing cards, to help me take him to the showers.
About four or five guys helped me drag him, kicking and screaming, and
we put him under the shower, clothes and all. He was almost crying, and
soon we convinced him to undress and soap up. I told him he had to take
a shower every day from then on. I suggested that if he didn’t want to
undress in front of others, he could either get up early or take a
shower late, when no one was in there, and I expected him to take a
shower every day, from now on. I'm fairly sure he did exactly that,
because his bunk-mates watched him like a hawk, and I'm
certain they would have let me know if he started stinking
again. I made it a point to check his smell myself, and I know
the poor boy didn't want to be further embarrassed in front of
a bunch of guys again, treating him like a child.
There were other problems to handle, but these two are examples of the
kinds of things we had to watch. Usually, there was total cooperation.
After all, no one wanted to stick out like a sore thumb. We went
through some tough times together: forced marches, night use of a
compass, searching for a location in pitch darkness, crawling under
barbed wire in the mud while live rounds were being fired over our
heads, bivouacking in October, in pouring down rain. Eating floating
shit-on-a-shingle for breakfast in that same pouring rain, sitting on
the toilets together in the mornings, with the latrine so gaseous you
could hardly breath, lying in the mud on the firing range, learning to
fire a nine pound rifle, doing a ten mile force march to the top of
misery hill, doing ten pull ups at the mess hall, which allowed you to
enter for chow, inspections, etc., etc. I vividly remember firing the
M1 in the pouring rain, to “qualify.” I also remember firing a hand
grenade from my M1, with it against my shoulder. For one week, I
experienced a contusion on my shoulder comparable in size to my
foot. I also remember marching back to our barracks from the
field and arriving late. When we cleared our weapons (for safety), one
live round was fired from someone in our platoon. Thankfully, it wasn't
Bolero. Fortunately, we were at the “port arms” position, which sent
the round into the air. For a split second, there was total silence,
then all hell broke loose. I don't recall who did the deed, but it
wasn't any of my guys.
Now, here is the part I hate. I never said a word to anyone at the end
of basic training when everyone was packing to leave. Not
that I didn't want to, it was because I couldn’t. It was a time when
friends were heading off to their new assignments. We had been together
such a brief time, yet we were totally bonded. How is it possible we
could become so close so quickly? All I know is, I had a lump in my
throat the size of a golf ball. To think, I was not likely to ever see
any of these guys again, and I had become so attached to them. It was
as if they had become a part of me. It actually hurt to see them go
their way, mostly to other training assignments, at other forts. No
tears, Jim. Be a man. That’s what men do, I thought. Men do not cry,
especially in front of each other. That would make us vulnerable, and
we can't have that. We had just finished a seriously difficult two
months; we were all manly men. Seriously, I could now see the value in
putting men into such a tricky situation, together; it took just a
short two months to become family, brothers. No tears, now.
No tears. It was so quiet. No one was talking. Not a one of us manly,
men said a damn word. We were all suffering from the same infirmary.
Manhood.
Other jobs, and many more evening classroom hours, are now just good
memories, but none have been as difficult to leave behind as my time in
Army basic training. Dave and I stayed in touch for years, but then
even that stopped somewhere along the way. My favorite was Bolero, and
I often wonder how life treated him. Milestones. Even the smallest of
things in life are milestones (some become millstones). I
grew up after my time in the military. I gained a maturity that was
lacking when I entered, and I also gained weight. All that demanding
work required energy, and I ate all my food, regular meals, and then
some. I became a man. A manly, man. I have had so many more milestones
in my life; at least I see them that way. They await my pen; I hope I
can get to them someday.
