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Recruit William J Auell, RA13303902 had a long Army career. Among other adventures he served in
Alaska and McGregor Range. He is now deceased.
This story, with the following comments, was sent by his son Michael Auell. "I quickly edited a few trivial family details out. Much may be boring or trivial, but it's a good overview of one soldier's experience. I tried to highlight some things with the largest type and boldface that I thought may be most applicable. Other smaller bold items were done that way by him. Feel free to use any of it. Hopefully some will get a kick out of some of the character stories or the details they may have forgotten long ago. Feel free to post it or spread it (or any parts). " |
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You're in the Army now,
You're not behind the plow,
You'll never get rich,
You son of a b-----,
You’re in the Army now.
Recruit William J Auell, RA13303902 reporting Sir!
The peace-time military services of 1949 were being manned by only volunteers. The draft had been suspended shortly after the end of World War II and all draftees had left the Army or re-enlisted in the Regular Army. Our war machine was down-sized to the point where engaging in a major conflict would not assure a victory for the United States. Many units were deactivated, and their equipment was put in moth balls. Several military installations were closed except for a small civilian force who maintained the facility and some of the stored equipment. The military appropriations portion of the federal budget was sliced dramatically. Billions of dollars were allocated to the Marshall Plan for the rebuilding of Europe, which resulted in waste beyond imagination.
When I served in France from 1952 through 1955 I saw first hand some of the results of this plan: thousands of electric refrigerators, washers and dryers rusting in acre after acre of open fields because no one in the United States Government took the time to consider the difference in electrical current. The United States uses 60 cycle electricity while Europe uses 50 cycle power. We sent thousands of new farm tractors to the European nations, and here again our governmental experts could not foresee any problems, not even the fact that the farmers were so destitute after the war they couldn’t afford the $2 a gallon of gasoline or diesel fuel. Quite a few French farmers had brand new American made tractors rusting in their fields. So some one had to pay for this plan, and it ended up being the armed forces. Austerity was the name of the game for the United States military. A recruit was paid $50 a month; and when Eisenhower was elected in 1952 he suggested returning to the pre-war pay scale of $21 a month.
I was assigned to a training company of the 3rd Armored Division, issued uniforms and equipment, given a haircut of my choice as long as it was a baldy, and billeted in WWII wooden barracks that were lined up perpendicular to the street. We soon learned that it was extremely important to get to the street in a very short time. In order to do that we had to leave the building via the side door, run down a small path and 'fall in' on the street. Since we were not fast enough to please our Platoon Sergeant [a PFC], especially the men that lived on the second floor, we had to practice in order to get our response time lower. One evening after dinner we were once again practicing our ‘fall in’ drill when one of the soldiers fell on the path. A lot of the troops tried to run around him but apparently some stepped on him breaking both of his legs. The platoon sergeant was a little more tolerant after that incident. He should have been court-martialed, but as far we knew, nothing was ever done.
A TASTE OF DISCIPLINE
I saw this bird one more time during our graduation ceremony. I left Fort Knox and didn’t bother to say goodbye to my friendly First Sergeant. Boy, I would liked to have seen him about 10 years later. He sure as hell would be sorry if he didn’t stand at attention and address me as “sir”..
I will never forget the chow in that training company. They had a lot of guts calling it food. I lost 30 pounds in 12 weeks, and it wasn't all from the exercise. I think the Mess Sergeant had been a pig farmer before he found his home in the Army, at least his way of preparing food would strongly suggest that. Food was in short supply due to the budget crunch and a lot of it was Government surplus, therefore it would have taken someone with a little imagination and creative ability to prepare a meal that would be half way pleasing to the taste buds. We ate a lot of powdered eggs, in fact we ate them six days a week, fresh eggs [or at least they were still in the shell] only on Sunday. The cooks couldn’t fry an egg without breaking the yolk, so everyone ate scrambled eggs. We had canned condensed milk for cereal and morning coffee. No cream for coffee at lunch or dinner. I don't remember seeing a piece of fresh fruit the whole time I was there. I heard that three guys broke teeth trying to eat the biscuits. Another fellow thought he saw one of the green wieners move a little bit. There was a PX across the street from our barracks but we were not allowed to visit it until we got our first pay, which was almost a month after we set foot on the red Kentucky clay, and then we were told what to buy [no candy, chewing gum, cookies, snack food].
For twelve weeks we spend our days and nights learning close order drill, how to roll a field pack, map reading, first aid, camouflage, grade and rank recognition, survival skills, self-defense, tactics and a lot of other training that would prepare the recruit to be a good soldier. Of course, the big thrill of the entire twelve weeks was the issuance of your M1 rifle. We learned how to disassemble and reassemble our rifles, how to fall in love with our rifles and really mean it, how to remember the serial number of our rifles, how to carry our rifles, how to sleep with our rifles, how to clean our rifles, how to do the manual of arms with our rifles, how to guard with our rifles, how to fight with our rifles without firing it, and how to fire our rifles. I think I knew that rifle better than I knew some of my own body parts.
Naturally, being Army ground-pounders we marched, and marched, and marched some more. We took several 5 and 10 mile jaunts and one 30 mile beauty out to the bivouac area where we spent a week and then another 30 miles back to the garrison. Camping out in Kentucky in the winter was a barrel of fun. It just so happened that the winter of 48/49 was one of the worst in several years. It snowed nearly every day and the nights got so cold the sleeping bags barely kept one warm. One night I put my combat boots outside my sleeping bag and they froze stiff by the next morning. My rifle was warm though; I had that sucker in the sleeping bag with me. The food out there in the boonies was a real treat - left over World War II C-rations. The only thing good about them was the packet of four cigarettes with each meal. I didn't think any food could be worse than what we were fed back in garrison. What I wouldn't have given for one of those big greasy hamburgers I used to cook in our restaurant and a big chocolate shake. Using the unique toilet facility was another memorable experience. The original comfort station - the time honored slit trench. I quickly learned what was meant by frozen buns. The privacy was unusually quaint; there was none. You were out there moonin' the world, and right then you didn't give a damn. I wished I had that back yard toilet my Aunt Louise tried to get me to use when I was a small child, at least it had a seat, walls and a door that afforded some privacy. Even her second offering of her thunder mug would have been welcome at this point. There are some things that are better done alone.
After graduating from basic training I was assigned to Camp Lee near Petersburg, Virginia. There were four classes of creatures in that nice little southern town, ranked in the order of respect and worth. Whites, dogs, blacks, soldiers. We felt very unwelcome when we went down town. I attended a nine week administrative course that covered such
subjects as filing, preparation of correspondence, mailing, and the numerous duties that would be required of a clerk. I graduated as a Clerk because I couldn't type 45 words a minute; 30 being my tops. I didn't think that was too bad since I had never touched a typewriter before attending that school.
Subsequent to a leave back to Pennsylvania, I arrived at my new duty station in June, 1949. I was assigned to the 3450th Station Hospital at Warren Air Force Base, Wyoming as a clerk. I later learned why I was assigned to an Air Force unit when I was in the Army. I was what was known as SCARWAF [Special Category Army with Air Force];
Army personnel on loan to the Air Force because the Air Force at that time was in its
infancy, having broken away from the Army only a year before. There were 450 Air Force enlisted men and 45 Army enlisted men assigned to the hospital. The Army troops were treated just like the fly boys, except there was one gigantic morale problem; they did not have authority to promote Army dog faces. The Air Force got the stripes and the Army got the shaft. Not a real good situation, or at least not good as far as the ground-pounders were concerned.
My duty assignment was the A & D [Admissions and Dispositions] office which was stuck down in the bowels of this old Cavalry structure built about the time Custer was making his last stand against the Indians. They had added several buildings behind the main section of the hospital that were used as wards and one building was the mess hall. All the buildings were connected by covered and heated hallways so that patients wouldn't get cold traveling within the facility. This hospital specialized in the treatment of Rheumatic Fever, serving any patient who was diagnosed RF. Most of the patients came from the Army and Air Force units in the Far East. The hospital had 300 beds that were occupied most of the time. Some of the patients were there over a year and they were assigned to a special hospital unit known as the Detachment of Patients. Their next step would be discharge to civilian life.
A THANKSGIVING TO FORGET
I went through the serving line, helping myself to mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, a vegetable, hot dinner rolls and a nice big brown turkey leg. My mouth was watering. Would it be as good as the last one I had about three years when my mother made her last Thanksgiving dinner. I bowed my head in a moment of silence thanking the Lord for his blessings and in remembrance of my mother. Now it was time to sink my teeth into that leg before it got cold.
I picked that sucker up with my left hand and took a big bite. The blood filled my mouth and was dripping onto the rest of the food on my tray. I got up and left without clearing the tray and placing it on the pile of dirty trays. I went up to the Day room and got a couple candy bars from the machine. I didn’t want any turkey for a while.
For several years I used to get sick on Thanksgiving Day and have missed some tasty meals. I have no idea why I got sick on that particular day. Maybe that Thanksgiving dinner back in good old Warren Air Force Base had something to do with it. I don’t know.
One of my duties as an Admission and Disposition clerk was to gather personal data from people being admitted to the hospital. We had a standard form that was used to gather general information including name, rank, serial number, length of service, etc. An Army Master Sergeant who just arrived from Guam was being admitted. I asked his name, grade [which I could see], length of service [which was 25 years], and when I asked for his serial number he removed his wallet from his pocket, took out his ID Card and read the number to me. I knew he had been in the service for quite a while since he had a seven digit serial number, last used in the 30s. I sort of thought he should have memorized his serial number by this time.
RANK HAS IT’S PRIVILEGE
He was in charge of the base theater which he ran with an iron fist. If a person walked into the lobby with their hat on, he would yell “Take that hat off soldier”; not caring whether it was a Colonel or a Private. The national anthem was played each evening before the movie started. A second or two before the first note of the Star Spangled Banner he would step inside the seating section and shout “Attention” at the top of his voice, scaring the hell out of every one in the theater. No one had trouble rising for the anthem because they were half out of their seat already from his frightening announcement.
During the course of my information gathering process, one of the questions was length of service. When I ask him how long he had been in the service, he said “just put down 44 years; that doesn’t count my National Guard time”. His service stripes [hash marks] each signifying 3 years of military service, started at the cuff of his sleeve and stopped at the bottom of his Master Sergeant chevrons.
After completing the paper work I told him he was going to Ward 3 on the second floor of the hospital. “Wait a minute, I’m not going to a ward, I want a private room” he said in his gruff voice, “who do you work for, soldier?”. I quickly realized this one was too much for a lowly Private like me, so I took him upstairs to see Master Sergeant Hagan, the Registrar NCOIC. They then met with Major Elder, the Registrar. Finally, the whole procession ended up at the office of the Hospital Commander, Colonel Blank. I’m quietly trailing along through all this like a little puppy sneaking into the circus. I was surprised no one told me to get lost. After talking to the Hospital Commander and getting the same answer everyone else had given him, he asked the Colonel if he could use his phone. The Colonel agreed and the Sergeant called the Base Commander, another bird colonel.
“Charlie” he said, “I’m being admitted to the base hospital and they want to give me a bed in one of the wards. I think my length of service entitles me to a private room”. The Sergeant handed the phone to the Hospital Commander, who upon hanging up the phone, told Major Elder to give the Sergeant a private room.
It seems that 27 years earlier Sergeant Christensen was the First Sergeant of a company where the Base Commander was first assigned as a Second Lieutenant, and they were assigned to the same unit many times during their long careers, becoming close friends.
I went back to my office understanding a bit more about military protocol; Rank sure does Have It’s Privileges.....
Sergeant Hagan was a little stubby [not fat and not lean] man that stood about 5' 5" in his best shoes. This guy, who became a good friend of mine, swaggered around the halls swinging his arms like someone had just put a key in his butt and wound him up. He and his wife were Seventh Day Adventists, the only ones I ever met in the service. I must admit I got pretty mad at him at times, but he taught me a lot about the proper prepar- ation of correspondence and how hospital administration was supposed to function. When I took a letter that I had typed to him for approval prior to the Majors’ signature, he would check it with a fine toothed comb, measuring the margins and typed letterhead with a ruler. If there were any errors he would make the correction in red pencil and send it back to me for retyping. I soon learned to closely check my work before I took it to him. He had the bad habit of smoking cigarettes, but his wife didn't know it [so he said, but I don't see how she could have missed the smell from the smoke that must have clung to his clothes]. He would puff on cigarettes all day, then about an hour before he went home he started chewing gum like a hungry puppy chewing his first bone. He would leave the cigarettes in his desk, douse himself with a little after shave lotion and go home. He later received a direct commission and was assigned to an air base in Florida not too far from Patrick Air Base at Cocoa Beach. When Cathy was born at the hospital at Patrick on June 21, 1951 Harold and his wife came to see the new child. We were looking at the babies through the window of the nursery when he asked which one was Cathy. I pointed to the one in the end crib. After a quick glance at the little dark baby in the end crib, he mumbled a barely audible cursory congratulatory remark - "she looks like a very nice baby”, never looking at the baby. There was a moment of silence, then I couldn't control my laughter any longer. I informed him and his wife that the little baby in the end crib belonged to a black Air Force couple who were stationed at that base; Cathy was the baby in the third crib from the end. He said " I thought there was something wrong, but I didn't want to say anything that might offend you or your wife".
At Warren AFB I lived on the second floor of another old building with nine other enlisted men, mostly Air Force. My bunk was one on the extreme left and a physical therapist had the bunk on the extreme right. This guy, whom I will call Samson because
I don't remember his name, would parade around the hospital wearing the traditional medical white pants and pullover white shirt with short sleeves that were rolled up to expose his muscular arms. For some reason Samson and I got into an argument that turned into a fist fight and wrestling match. I quickly learned that this bird was muscle bound. Those big muscular arms that he flaunted so brazenly actually severely limited his movements and ability to respond with dispatch. He made an attempt to hit me with his right fist to which I reacted by throwing a right then a left to his face. We ended up wrestling on the floor where he bit my left side a little above the waistline. His bite drew blood, infuriating me to the point where I was sitting on his chest rapidly punching his face unmercifully. Three of our room mates came into the room and pulled me off of him. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing they stopped the fight since his biting my side made me so mad I was out of control. I went to the emergency room to get my wound treated and I carried the scar for years.
The A&D office was moved from the basement to the first floor and I was assigned to
night shift from 4:30 PM to 8:00 AM the following morning, working every other day.
I was required to type the daily admissions and discharges on stencils and then run them
off on the mimeograph machine. I had good eyesight until I got this job. I also had
uniforms that were free of ink. Another duty was getting information from people that were admitted during the night. Late one night one of the ambulance drivers told me there was a person in the emergency room to be admitted. I went to the ER and found this man who was wearing glasses laying on the table looking straight up at the ceiling. When I got close enough I noticed that what I thought were glasses was actually blood that had run from the bullet hole in his left temple, around his eyes and then down to the right ear. This guy was stone dead. The ambulance drivers hiding in the next room thought that was pretty funny. "Hey, Auell, did you get his name?" "Very funny" I mumbled. This man was an Air Force Sergeant who for months had been burglarizing
homes throughout Cheyenne. The law finally was about to arrest him when he saved them the effort. He put a bullet in his head.
Cheyenne, Wyoming was a wild and wooly town. A lot of cowboys raising hell every night of the week. During Frontier Days [July 4 through 14] the frenzy increased many fold; the place became a mad house with crazy drunken people elbow to elbow pushing toward another bar. Everyone threw their empty drink glasses or beer bottles into the street. You were lucky if you survived without cuts and bruises. Glass was 4 inches deep at the curbs. A fight on most streets sometime during the night was most probable. Drunken cowboys would take their horse right into the bar. My friend and I walked into a hotel with the intention of getting a drink at the bar. We never made it to the bar but somehow we came out the other door with a drinks in both hands, not knowing from whence they came. And cared even less.
I don't know why, but I usually went to town with two of my friends. Angelo DeNova
was a guy from New York City who was bigger than me. Tom Riseland was a little red-headed squirt from
Minnesota who weighted about 98 pounds fully dressed. Invariably, he would pick a fight with somebody, usually a cowpoke, and then run to Angie or me for help. We finally got tired of bailing him out, so we refused to help him one time when he got into a scrap and ended up with a few good licks. That sort of calmed him down and he confined his arguing to our own little group. Another time Tom got smashed so we took him into a restaurant to get him some coffee, the rest of us ordering sandwiches and fries. Right after the waitress put the food on the table Tom raised his head and puked all over the food. [I wonder if he was related to President George Bush who pulled the same stunt at a dinner party in Japan many years later]. A lot of times we left him back in the barracks after that episode, and when we did take him we severely limited his drinking and kept an eye on him the whole night.
Although I had a lot of friends, I was still lonely. Running around with the guys got to be old stuff. Most of my leisure time I spent over in the hospital just talking to the fellows on duty or going to the movies with a bunch of the guys from the hospital. I wrote a few letters, mostly to Berniece McGill in Saegertown who I got to know when I hired her to work in our Saegertown store before I entered the Army and who I took out a couple of times. The only other people I wrote to was my dad and my sister Viola. The letters to and from Berniece became more frequent and serious. Before long we were both talking about how it would be to get married.
Finally in February 1950 I was promoted to Private First Class. At that time the Army
adopted miniature rank insignias, the chevrons being about one-fourth the size that they
had been. This little one stripe looked lost on the sleeve of a shirt the size of mine. I was proud to get the stripe, even if it was small, and got busy getting my first stripe sewn on my uniforms. Everyone has to start somewhere and in the service that's usually at the bottom, exactly where I happened to be at that time. (The Army changed their rank structure sometime around 1948. Recruit [E1], Private First Class [E2], Corporal [E4], Sergeant [E5], Sergeant First Class [E6] and Master Sergeant [E7]. Later they added specialist grades and E8 and E9 grades.)
In March of 1950 I was notified by the Department of the Army that my 21 month
Regular Army enlistment was scheduled to end on October 7, 1950. Due to the’ police
action’ in Korea I would be transferred to the Enlisted Reserve on October 8, 1950 and immediately called to active duty as a Reservist on that date for an additional 21 months with the same duty assignment as I currently had. This meant my new tentative date of discharge was June 7, 1952. In reality, the only thing that happened was my serial number prefix was changed from RA [which signified Regular Army] to ER [which signified Enlisted Reserve]. So I had more than 2 years to serve from this March 1950 date. I thought I might as well try to re-enlist for 2 years and collect the re-enlistment bonus that I would be entitled to and could use very nicely since I was now making $90 a month [before deductions]. Although its hard to believe, the Air Force had no idea how to handle this supposedly simple task, so they contacted the Army who apparently couldn't figure out how to re-enlist a Regular Army enlisted man who was scheduled to be transferred to the Reserve. So there I sat in limbo as far as my future in the Army. I was perfectly willing to re-enlist for 3 years which would have only been a year longer than I was going to serve under the present set-up. Since I sort of liked military life I wouldn't mind committing another year. No soap. They would take it under advisement and let me know at a later date.
Berniece and I were getting more serious about each other and decided that we would
get married. Perhaps in retrospect, our decision was immature and premature, because we really didn't know each other very well. Nevertheless, over the objection of her mother and father, we were married at the Methodist Church in Cheyenne, Wyoming in August 1950. We took up residence in a small apartment and began learning about marriage and each other. Since we lived away from the base I had to have some means
of transportation to get to work, so we bought a 1937 Chevrolet two-door sedan for
$200 that turned out to be a pretty good jalopy. At least it started on those bitter cold Wyoming mornings when other cars wouldn't, including my boss' brand new Kaiser. One bright and bitterly cold morning he had his breakfast of humble pie when he mustered up enough courage to ask me for a ride to work. I was happy to give him a ride in a reliable
car as I teased him about his nice new Kaiser automobile that wouldn’t start. I claimed it was made from recycled aluminum foil. Actually the Kaiser was a pretty nice car.
Another stripe was added in November 1950, making me a Corporal and my new duty
assignment was in the Registrar's office in charge of the Patient Fund, a procedure
whereby the patients left there personal money with us for safe keeping and could draw
it out anytime they wanted it. I welcomed the new responsibility and small raise. Up to
that time I made $120 a month [$90 pay and $30 separate rations - reimbursement for
food that the serviceman would have eaten in the mess hall if he was living in the barracks]. Major Elder and Sergeant Hagan practically begged me to transfer to the Air Force, promising that I would be a Master Sergeant in less than two years. Being a stubborn Dutchman and of questionable sanity, I told them I had joined the Army and I would be true to that commitment. That was most likely one of the dumbest mistakes I ever made in my military career. The Air Force was a young organization and I probably could have been promoted through the enlisted ranks to the commissioned officer ranks in the medical administration field like so many others were doing at that time, including Sergeant Hagan. Live and learn. It would take me another nine years to pin Warrant Officer bars on my shoulders.
1951 came in like a lion in Cheyenne, Wyoming, bringing reassignment orders to the
838th Engineer Aviation Battalion at Orlando Air Force Base near the city for which
the base was named. I was to report in early April so we didn’t have much time to get prepared for this move. The most important consideration was transportation. I would be paid 6 cents a mile but wouldn't receive anything for dependent travel, therefore travel by public conveyance would require borrowing money for the tickets. We could sell the 37 Chevy but would have to buy another car when we got to Florida. We finally decided to buy a 1947 Dodge 4 door-sedan from a used car dealer in downtown Cheyenne if he would take the Chevy in on trade. He agreed to sell us the car for $600 difference, which seemed to be a fair and reasonable deal. I explained to him that we needed a car that would make it to Florida. He said there was a 50/50 warranty for 30 days and he would stand behind that verbal guarantee regardless of where we were. A few days after we got the car, my pregnant wife and I were on the way to Orlando, Florida with all of our worldly possessions in the back seat and trunk. ala Klampetts!
A TOWN NE’ER FORGOTTEN
The motel owners gave us a tour of the town and dropped us off at the restaurant. After we ate I went to the cash register to pay the bill and the cashier said our dinners were paid for. I thanked her, having no idea as to the identity of the benefactor. We went to the movies and they wouldn’t take our money for tickets, and then brought us popcorn.
The following morning after we ate breakfast at the town restaurant where again the meal was free, I went to talk to the mechanic who was working on the car. He told me a connecting rod broke and it scarred the cylinder wall. They intended to re-bore the cylinder and install an oversized piston and rings. I should be ready later in the day. That sounded good to me and I asked about the cost of the repairs. He told me it would be about $400. I called the dealer in Cheyenne, Wyoming and told him about the breakdown. He said he would send $200 right away; and much to my surprise, he did. I was amazed that I had met a reasonably honest used car dealer [A rare bird in any era]. Of course we needed $200 more, so we called Berniece’s parents and they loan us the money.
I returned to the garage later in the day and the dealer said he had some bad news. The boring bar slipped when they were re-boring the cylinder wall and cut a big groove out of the wall, rendering the engine junk. He said we would have to install a new engine in the car. I asked him the cost of a new engine; about $800. He said “don’t worry about it, our machine caused the problem so I will put a new engine in your car for the price we quoted for the repair. Come back tomorrow morning and your car will by ready to go”.
I returned to the garage the next morning and the black beauty Dodge was purring like a kitten. The mechanic told me the dealer would not let a new engine go out of there with old plugs and points, so they installed new ones at no charge. I couldn’t believe it. Some Higher Power must have been looking out for us. We loaded the car with the things we had taken into the motel and we were ready to go.
I asked the motel owner what I owed him. “Your bill is $18 for the three days, but don’t pay me now. Send it to me when you have it after you get settled in Florida”. I assured him we could afford such a small charge, thanking him for his generosity and hospitality, and insisting I pay the bill right there and then. Reluctantly, he accepted the money, telling me several times that he wished I would pay him later.
The whole time we were in that town we never had to pay for one meal, cup of coffee, soda pop or anything else. The car dealer didn’t even charge me for the long distance calls to Wyoming and Pennsylvania.
How could I ever forget the patriotic and generous down-to-earth citizens who live in the quaint little town of Clayton, New Mexico. When they learned that I was a soldier, they couldn’t do enough for us. When they found out about a young couple having trouble far away from home, they merely responded in their southern Christian way. The thoughtfulness, kindness and generosity that we witnessed in this small rural village was the manifestation of what is known as Christianity and good old American patriotism. It certainly was an unusual experience, seldom seen during an entire lifetime.
Upon arriving in Orlando, priority Numero Uno was to locate an affordable place to live. Considering the amount of cash on hand and my future earnings as a Corporal,
we weren’t in a position to consider an estate on one of the many lakes in the city of Orlando; the servants’ quarters might have been more like it. I had to get an advanced pay before I left Wyoming which would be taken out of my pay over the next six months. We found a small house in an area of the city that was not known for its elegant palaces and mansions, but was within our meager budget. After we moved in we found we were not the only occupants of the structure; being forced at least temporarily, to share the house with several generations of a well established cockroach family. Eventually, we got the situation under control. We moved.
I reported to the 838th EAB and was assigned to Headquarters Company motor pool as
a clerk. A far cry from the cleanliness and orderliness of the hospital that I had just left.
I was notified by the Personnel Section that new regulations established procedures by
which an enlisted reservist could reenlist in the Regular Army. In order to obtain the
maximum bonus I re-enlisted for 6 years. When the finance section was computing the
bonus it was noted that I had been granted an advanced pay before I left Wyoming, which had to be repaid from the final pay of the first term of service. Consequently, I not only didn't receive a bonus, but my entire monthly pay for the month of May was used to cover the advanced pay. My pay for May was zilch. This brought forth a clear and present problem. We were broke! Penniless! Without coin or bill! We didn't have enough money to buy groceries. At one point, we didn't have any food and we only had a dime. A loaf of bread cost 11 cents, so that was beyond our current assets. We finally shared a Mounds candy bar that we purchased with our last dime.
Luckily, before we moved from the first rental we got to know a Scottish couple that
lived across the street: Mr. Roberts was the manager of a drive-in restaurant on the outskirts of town and gave me a job as a short-order cook. I would work from 5 PM
until midnight after I got home from my Army assignment and on weekends. This job
was a lifesaver and allowed us to buy some needed grub and supplies. To further help
out with our shortage of food I was allowed to take left-overs home when we closed up
at night.
Later I got an after duty job at the snack bar of the Base Exchange which was much closer to our home. I cooked hamburgers, made French fries and sold beer. There was a skinny little Buck Sergeant who was a cook in a nearby mess hall, who came in every night about 6 PM and started drinking canned beer. After he had downed about six beers he would line up the cans and talked to them as if they were junior soldiers. He refused to let us remove the cans from his table. Before the night was over he usually consumed 12 or more cans of beer before he staggered back to the barracks. The woman who was the night manager treated me and all the other employees very well. Little did we know that she was embezzling funds for which she was subsequently fired.
After working as a clerk in the motor pool for about three months I was promoted to Staff Sergeant [E5]. Since a clerk couldn't be a first three grader [at that time there were only 7 enlisted grades, Master Sergeant E7 being the highest] I was placed on temporary duty [TDY] to the Base Headquarters to work with the civilian safety director. This older gentleman taught me a lot about ground safety and assigned me the task of inspecting all structures and roads on Orlando Air Force Base and on another adjoining base that was being prepared for expansion. One of my jobs was the development of a traffic pattern for the new base including placement of all traffic signs, establishment of speed limits and any other safety features deemed appropriate. An additional duty was the investi- gation of vehicle accidents, working closely with the State and local police units. I really liked the job, especially since my office was in an air conditioned building. I knew it wouldn’t last.
There was a small dispensary on Orlando AFB to serve the military members and their dependents. Only outpatient services were provided, hence maternity cases and other cases that would require inpatient services were referred to Patrick Air Force Base at Cocoa Beach, a distance of about 60 miles. Ambulances were not available for taking prospective mothers to Patrick Air Base, therefore the service member was responsible for getting his dependents to the hospital at the right time. Due to distance involved it was a good idea to be ready to go when there were indications a baby was ready to be born. We just made it to Patrick AFB in time for the birth of Catherine Lucille Auell. So named in honor of my mother and Berniece’s mother [their middle names].
We lived in a nice roomy second floor furnished apartment close to the center of town.
One side of the first floor was occupied by the owners and the other side by a retired Army Major who had a big dog. Everyone just called him "Major" and found him to be a personable fellow who had a tale about almost anything in the world. He assumed the role of being the authority on all subjects, being loud and vocal in his communication. His loudness most probably caused more by the amount of spirits that he consumed than a hearing condition. We got along with him quite well and he loved baby Cathy. After we settled in our home and got used to the baby, we were able to take a few side trips to see different parts of the state when relatives from up north visited use. My father, Berniece”s parents and her aunt Grace and Uncle Ken visited us at different times.
ANYONE THIRSTY?
Hum! I’ll fix this guy! I got one of our very large ice tea glasses, filled it with ice water, returned to the table and gave him the water. Just like the first two glasses he gulped it down. I thought to myself ‘Doesn’t this guy have a bottom?’. Okay, I’ve got the answer. I got up from the table and got a large pitcher of ice water and sat it down in front of him. Aha, I fixed him! To my surprise, he moved the glass aside and drank the entire pitcher of water. I gave up. Let him get his own water from now on. I made sure he knew the location of the bathroom. I’d never seen a person consume so much liquid.
But come to think of it, on our first visit to Pennsylvania after we were married we attended a picnic at the home of Berniece’s grandfather. At that time, Carl offered me a drink of hard cider which he had removed from his car. I accepted the gallon jug and with both hands on the jug took a small sip of the contents. “You don’t know much about drinking, do you?”, he asked. Then “do you want another drink?”. When I declined, he rested the jug on his bent arm [ala Hill Billy style], put his lips on the mouth of the jug and downed the rest of the gallon.
In 1951 when we were living in Florida, land could have been bought for a song. The swamp land out near the town of Kissimmee, a few miles from Orlando could be picked
up for $25 an acre. Who would have ever guessed that Disney World would occupy
that land twenty years later. Now it's probably worth over $25 a square inch or more. The problem I had back then was that I didn't have the extra $25 to buy an acre. If I had been able to foresee the development of this land I would have borrowed as much as I could to buy a few acres. It just wasn’t supposed to happen. Live and learn, so they say.
Here we go again. I got orders to join the 322nd Engineer Aviation Group at Wolters
Air Force Base at Mineral Wells, Texas in preparation for deployment to France. This
meant that Berniece and Cathy would have to live with her parents until they were able
to come to France. We packed up our belongings and made the trip to Pennsylvania.
I drove to Wolters Air Force Base, sold the Dodge [Berniece didn’t know how to drive a car at that time, therefore there was no need to leave the car in Pennsylvania] and reported to my new unit. The 322nd EAG was a Reserve unit from New York City that was ordered to active duty for a period of 3 years and was directed to deploy to Toul-Rosierre Air Base, about 20 miles from Nancy, France by the first of June 1952. I was assigned to the Operations Section as a Utility Supervisor. I don’t know why. Maybe due to my vocational school training. Nevertheless, I had no difficulty with the job requirements and duties.
The 322nd was like no other organization I have ever seen. There were about 150
Reservists who were called to active duty for 2 years, and 45 Regular Army troops of
which I was one. Some of the enlisted men were the bosses of some of the officers in
civilian life. Our Company Commander, Captain Campbell was a vacuum cleaner salesman in NYC and worked for the Supply Sergeant. [One Saturday morning he forgot to put his brass and captain bars on his uniform and the Platoon Sergeants who were all part of the NYC gang refused to call the troops to attention or salute him during an inspection. He stood in front of the troops bewildered until our Regular Army First Sergeant told him he had forgotten to put his brass on his uniform. No inspection that Saturday morning]. The Group Adjutant was a 50 year old homosexual who was so stingy he wrote a letter to the Chrysler Corporation asking for a rebate for the ashtray that came with his car if he sent it to them. I think he had his uniforms left over from WW11 and wore them without benefit of laundry or dry cleaning since that time. The Sergeant Major stayed in bed to 10 or 11 o'clock every day, just in time to arrange transportation for his evening trip to town. The Regular Army people couldn't believe the behavior, disrespect and lack of qualification of most of the Reservists, including some of the officers. After we got to France the Food Service Officer [a Warrant Officer 2] showed up about once a week, the rest of the time he was with his French girlfriend in Nancy. Oh well, if he was needed everyone knew the hotel where he lived and drank. These folks from the Big Apple were the subject of many discussions among the Regular Army personnel.
We left Wolters AFB on May 11, 1952 on a special military train and arrived at Port New Orleans in Louisiana the morning of May 12, 1952 [my father's 59th birthday]. That afternoon we boarded the SS Ballou and left at sundown on our 17 day trip to France. The vessel was a WWII Liberty Ship that was being used to transport displaced Europeans to the United States. The ship was filthy. The latrines reeked with odors of human urine and feces. The sleeping area smelled of perspiration and other body odors. I was bunked on the fourth floor below the main deck. Most of us spent as much time as possible on the main deck to get away from the stench. After experiencing a few days of stormy weather and rough seas, about half the soldiers were leaning over the rail heaving their cookies. I was surprised I didn't become ill, especially since I’m not much of a sailor. We finally debarked at Le Havre, France on May 29, 1952.
So this is France! I was anxious to learn more about the country and its people. I had
heard so many things about France and the French, especially when we were still at
Wolters getting ready to shove off. It seemed like everyone had a different story to tell,
generally passed down from a relative that had served in France during the war or from
older family members that had migrated to the United States. As we lulled away our time
in the barracks we were subjected to a barrage of information mainly from two GIs who had French relatives and who apparently knew nothing else to talk about. You would have thought we were going to Utopia. They went on and on about all the things to see and do; you wondered if they were going to have time for work. Maybe New Yorkers, especially those from the Big Apple, are better dreamers than people from the other parts of the good ole US of A.
Beautiful women, mannerly and cultured gentlemen, fashionable clothing, savory cuisine, delicate wines, dainty little pastries and deserts, magnificent architecture, priceless works of art, sculptured masterpieces, glorious history, and endless tales of French gallantry awaited our introduction, exploration and appreciation. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc De Triumph, the Seine, little villages unchanged from one generation to the next, the vineyards of Bordeaux and the individuality of Alsace-Lorraine. Would we be able to see most of these sights in the short time we would be there? Will we be so impressed that we will return again to continue our education of France, perhaps even as civilians after we leave the service? It sounded so exciting it was difficult to control the urge to board the first tour bus that came along. Or maybe we will have a different opinion of the French scene after we have had a chance to get acquainted.
We boarded a French train and started on our trip to the eastern part of the country. This was a new and different experience right from the start. The train was pulled by a 1930 vintage steam engine, the freight and passenger cars being at least that old. At times we wondered whether we were going to make it up some of the hills we encountered on our way east. Obviously the cars were the victims of the apparent broom shortage and lack of cleaning material. Luckily, we were fed field rations during the trip. We finally arrived in the city of Toul where we debarked and boarded two and one half ton Army trucks for the final leg of the journey.
Toul-Rossiere Air Base, carved out of a large wooded area was located about 10 miles
from the small village of Toul and about 20 miles from the much larger city of Nancy.
The Department of Defense engaged French contractors to build an air base according to DoD specifications. The contract specified completion dates for each phase of construction. The first phase included the construction of a 1000 man mess hall, several latrines, a water and sewage system, electrical and fuel oil systems, dirt streets, wooden frames for squad tents and an aircraft runway capable of serving fighter planes. Subsequent phases included various buildings and facilities which would culminate in a fully operational fighter air base that would be a component of the NATO defense system.
The mission of the 322nd Aviation Engineer Group was to insure that the French contractors complied with the construction specifications, supervise subordinate Aviation Engineer Battalions and Maintenance Detachments, assume responsibility for certain phases of construction, and establish liaison between American military and French civilian personnel involved in the construction of air bases. To accomplish this mission the Group had experienced Engineer officers and enlisted surveyors, inspectors, soil analysts, construction foremen, draftsmen, photographers and supporting personnel. I was assigned to the Operations Section [S3] as a utility inspector and a member of an inspection team.
Inspection of the runways and taxiways of various airfields in France and Germany
revealed a tremendous difference between the fields in these two countries. The German
construction was usually acceptable, possibly with minor corrections. France was a different story. We found concrete slabs on the runways that were up to a foot higher or lower than the one next to it. It would have been impossible for planes to land or take off. Some of the roads to the air strip from the base camp would be washed away or become impassable after a rain storm. The base camp was without water a good share of the time, creating serious sewage problems. The 1000 man mess hall was a disaster; roof leaked, concrete floor was crumbling, the electrical system was inoperable, equipment was improperly installed, water and sewage systems didn't work and the building was never available for use for the 21 months the Group was located at Toul-Rossiere Air Base. Using the French telephone system was an experience that would test the patience of a saint.
The French people were out to get all they could from the Americans. Property owners
in the small villages where military trucks traveled frequently claimed the trucks vibrated
the roof shingles loose, and would receive a new roof far superior to the original that had probably leaked for years. The merchants in the towns and cities indicated the price of their wares on a small card attached to the article; the price for Frenchmen on one side and the much higher price for Americans on the other side. They would steal anything that wasn't locked down, and even some things that were. They were caught stealing large quantities of food stuffs from the mess halls. They stole tools, construction supplies, gasoline and various other items stockpiled on the base. They even stole some uniforms from the soldiers’ barracks area.
Enlisted men of grades E5 and above could apply to have their dependents join them.
The first step was to obtain a suitable apartment, a difficult task in an area that suffered from perpetual housing shortages that were worsened by WWII. Most of the available housing that was half way livable was in the city of Nancy. Fortunately, a reserve Master Sergeant in our group spoke fluent French. He helped several officers and enlisted men get suitable living quarters. One had to accept the fact that housing that was available on the French market was in most cases far inferior to the housing average Americans enjoyed in the States. Many multiple apartment buildings had only one toilet to be shared by all tenants. Most did not have tubs, showers or lavatories in the small dark room housing the toilet. Body cleanliness didn’t seem to be of high priority to the French. Maybe that’s the reason the French are noted for the many fragrances they market around the world???
With the help of our interpreter, I found a small second floor apartment on the outskirts
of Nancy. It had a small kitchen and two other rooms that supposedly would serve all
household needs. The first floor housed a small slipper factory owned and operated by
a middle aged French woman. Her living quarters were on the third floor. She was a
real character. When we were negotiating with her at the apartment she offered us a
drink of 'Mirabelle', a very strong clear substance that tasted more like gasoline than it
did a refreshing drink. She poured a half of a water glass for each of us. She downed
the drink without hesitation. The interpreter took a good slug. I took a small sip and
thought the top of my head was going to blow off. I have never tasted anything so strong and putrid in my life. I rented the apartment in July 1952 with the understanding that Berniece and Cathy would join me in early October. I was happy to move from the tent city we lived in at the base, even though I had to ride in the back of a deuce an a half truck each morning and night to get to and from the base. While I was at the base during the day, the landlady would enter my apartment, at times rearranging things as she saw fit. This lady had serious mental problems. She would rant and rave for no known reason. She would scream at the top of her voice, at times in the middle of the night. I think her mental illness coupled with all that Mirabelle she consumed every day was enough to make her a basket case most of the time.
Every evening our truck or bus driver would drop us off in front of the same small hotel near the train station in Nancy. Some evenings I would stop in the bar of the hotel since they served my favorite beverage. A Danish beer or two tasted pretty good before I went home to make my supper and take care of other chores. A male [?] piano player at the bar provided American music for the patrons, most of whom were Americans. The piano player and I quite often chatted about different songs, French food and weather. I told him I had an apartment in town and was patiently awaiting my wife and daughter. He asked me if I would like some paintings which he would show me at his apartment. I quickly refused his offer. He was as flaky as a Pillsbury biscuit and sure acted like he was loose in the loafers. Whether I was correct or not, I pegged him as a homosexual, and never gave him the slightest chance to prove it. A couple of years later I walked into a crowded bar in Paris and someone screamed in broken English "Hey Beel". It was the piano player. He asked me over to his table, saying he wanted me to meet the love of his life. The man sitting next to him was a big burly, fully bearded dirty looking Frog who just stared at me and grinned from ear to ear. I didn’t know if he was mentally ill, retarded or stoned, but he sure acted and looked strange. I made my exit post haste, declining their invitation to join them for a drink. Ah, Gay Paree!
Naturally the French had some mores, customs and habits that were different than what I knew as a good ole American boy. I usually went in the train station in downtown Nancy to await the ride to the base. There was a coffee bar in the station that served strong bitter coffee in a wine glass in which the Frenchman would drop 3 or 4 sugar cubes, but would not stir the coffee. He would sip on his coffee while reading the paper or talking to his friend, and when he was finished with the coffee he would take a teaspoon and eat the sugar that was in the bottom of the glass. Yuk!
Another thing that I couldn’t get used to was the urinal that was placed at the curb of the many of the city streets; the waste flowing down the gutter. Generally, there was one of these things every few blocks in the cities. The structure was nothing more than a piece of sheet metal that was held up by a metal post at each end. The sheet metal started about a foot off the ground and rose to a height of about 4 feet. The Frenchman would stand there doing his business as he chatted with people passing by. “Bon Jour, Madame”. I could never bring myself to use one of those crude facilities and I think most American men would be too embarrassed to take part in such a gross custom. No similar facility for women, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there had been. Stink? You wouldn’t believe it...
Berniece and Cathy arrived from the States in October 1952. We settled in the little
apartment in Nancy above the crazy lady. One thing that happens when military families
need help is that the other families in that military organization assist in any way they can. Although some people were less than complementary toward them, First Sergeant King and his wife were particularly helpful to us and many other families in the outfit. In a place as remote as Toul-Rosierre Air Base there were few conveniences like the super markets or the local well stocked store. Getting a fresh quart of pasteurized milk was a big deal. It cost a fortune to have dry cleaning done locally. The commissary and PX on the base when it finally opened was severely limited by the availability of stock and capable French help. Most families took a trip to Frankfurt, Germany to shop in the PX and enjoy the niceties of a well managed Exchange system.
The Operations Sergeant, a young Regular Army Master Sergeant from Oklahoma was
the unit's first victim to the attraction and personal magnetism of the French women that frequented the watering holes around Toul and Nancy. He would stay out all night, then be late for work the next day. His ability to function as a Section leader or a NCO was diminishing daily. He would come to work with the smell of alcohol on his breath. Half the time he didn't have a complete clean uniform. After several counseling sessions with the First Sergeant, Sergeant Major, Company Commander and Operations Officer he was relieved of his duties as Operations Sergeant and demoted to Sergeant First Class [E6]. That was only the beginning. Within 3 months he had been demoted one grade at a time to Corporal [E4], and within 6 months he was discharged from the Army with a Bad Conduct Discharge. This was a tragic case of a bright and capable young man who couldn’t resist the temptations of the French wine, women and song. He allowed his own destruction.
I was appointed Group Operations Sergeant when the previous Operations Sergeant was relieved of his assignment. This meant that I was the NCO in charge of the Operations Section [S3] where the mission planning and implementation supervision took place. Although I was only a Staff Sergeant [E5] and had less than 4 years service, I suppose the Commander and Operations Officer felt that I possessed the necessary know-how and demeanor for the position, and vowed to back me up if there were any problems with individuals senior in grade who were reluctant to take orders, indirect as they may be, from a junior sergeant. To increase my knowledge I went to a 12 week Construction Foreman Course at Murnau, Germany about 50 miles south of Munich in the heart of the Bavarian Alps. After I was in the school at Murnau for a short time I had Berniece and Cathy join me. We stayed in a small hotel owned and operated by a friendly German family. Our room at the hotel was clean, comfortable and no comparison with anything in France.
When I returned to the Group after successfully completing the course, I was promoted to Sergeant First Class [E6] in April 1953. The Commander, Executive Officer and several other officers wanted to promote me to Master Sergeant as soon as possible, but had to wait for at least 6 months and had to have an E7 vacancy. We had an abundance of E7s in the Group and subordinate units, so I didn't think I would receive that other stripe in the near future.
In April 1953 we purchased a new 1953 Plymouth Cranbrook,4 door sedan at the PX in Munich, Germany for $2050. It was equipped with radio and heater. It was light green and had a standard transmission. We were happy to have wheels at last and I taught Berniece how to drive, practicing on the unused part of the Autobahn between Ramstein Air Base and the French border [the part that Hitler never got to finish]. Our happiness with our new vehicle didn’t last very long. Almost from the day we got it, we had trouble starting it in the morning. I had to push that damn car with Berniece trying to catch it in gear. It didn’t matter where we lived, it acted the same. Every time I took it to the Chrysler garage in Paris or in Frankfurt it was the same story. Nothing wrong. After over two years of frustration we got rid of it just before we left Europe in May 1955. That car was undoubtedly the worst car I have ever owned. I got so mad one day I let my frustration and temper get the best of me when I hit the hood with my fist causing the chrome Plymouth emblem to snap like a dried stick. Pop, and there it went. Not too smart, but the broken emblem served as a constant reminder of how much I hated that car. I wouldn't even look at another car of the Chrysler family for several years after I got rid of that hog.
We moved from our apartment above the slipper factory as soon as we could find another
apartment in Nancy. We finally located one on a side street closer to the center of town.
The second floor apartment was in a row house that also had apartments on the first and third floor that were occupied by French families. Our apartment consisted of a living- dining room, a kitchen and two small bedrooms. The flush toilet in the hallway served all the residents. We purchased a collapsible bath tub from Sears. Our rent was 35,000 French Francs [$100 at that time], ten times the rent the Frenchman paid for the first floor apartment which had 3 bedrooms. Our car was damaged twice while we lived at this place, most probably by Communist vandals who paraded regularly around the neighborhood. One time they twisted the antenna off, and another time they got in the car and tried to pry the clock loose that was mounted on the top of the dashboard, leaving scratch marks and dents on the painted dash.
We twice received very bad news from back home. On October 31, 1952 the Red Cross notified me that my father died on October 29th of a fatal heart attack while he was at work as a watchman in a Saegertown plant. Then in March 0f 1953 we learned that Berniece's parents home burned to the ground and her father died of multiple burns.
We didn't go home for either of these tragedies, but our mourning and pain was as great
and genuine as if we had been there for both funerals.
The officer in charge of S3 was transferred. My new boss was a short, pudgy, 50 year old Major who possessed few characteristics of a military officer or civil engineer. He must have been a hang-over from WWII, biding his time until retirement. His appear- ance left a lot to be desired since he weighed about 225 pounds and wasn’t over 5’6” tall. He wore the same uniform day and day out. Maybe it was the only one he had.
He wasn’t what you would call a good example of a United States Army fighting man.
As I was moving my few personal items to my new desk, the Major summoned me to his desk, only about 6 feet from mine. Whispering in my ear he informed me that he had some personal and private possessions that would be locked in the lower right drawer of his desk. He instructed me in an unusually authoritative tone, noticeably very different from his squeaky monotone, that no one was to have access to his desk except himself and me. I didn't know what to expect. Perhaps, secret classified plans or documents of some type. Maybe a health record he didn't want revealed. Perchance some possessions he didn't want to keep in his apartment in Nancy. Possibly a gun. Oh my God, what if it’s a gun! I’ll have to report it; there are strict regulations about firearms. At last he put the key in and unlocked the drawer. He pulled the drawer out and removed a dilapidated old brown briefcase. He handed it to me and said "Take a look". I sat down, put the brief- case on my lap and threw back the flap. There were several folders filled with risqué jokes, photographs of naked women, prurient articles of questionable social value, and other salacious material. Possession of this stuff could get you in a lot of trouble, maybe a court-martial, demotion and/or dishonorable discharge. This was forbidden stuff! I almost dropped over. I couldn't believe it. I assured him that I would physically prevent anyone from gaining access to his desk. Especially me. I couldn't imagine what would happen if the CO or XO walked in and caught me reading some of that trash. The fear of these superior officers learning that I was part of a cover-up of this type material sent cold chills up my spine. I finally convinced myself that I couldn’t do anything about it, so I planned what I would say and do if the briefcase was ever discovered. I sure kept my distance from that desk. How do you put that in a job description? I guess it could come under "other tasks and duties as directed". I worried about this situation every single day until he was transferred back to the States.
One of the duties of an Operations Sergeant is to be aware of the status of each of the projects being completed by subordinate engineer units or contractors. To assure
compliance with contracts or military orders it was necessary for an S3 supervisor or
myself to head up a team to visit the job site to perform specific soil or material tests or to check the progress toward project completion. Since we had projects throughout France and western Germany, there were people on Temporary Duty [TDY] a good share of the time. Requiring people to be away from their permanent duty station could create problems, especially for some married personnel.
The 322nd Engineer Aviation Group was ordered to move to Landstuhl Air Base, Germany by April 1, 1954. Landstuhl AB was located adjacent to Ramstein Air Base, the home of the 12th Air Force. Both bases were only a few miles east of the eastern border of France. In order to prepare for the move, an advanced party of officers and senior enlisted men would be dispatched to the new site to arrange for troop and family needs, housing, administrative functioning and logistical support.
Lieutenant Colonel John Welsh, a gray-haired college professor from Memphis, Tennessee had been called to active duty for a period of two years and was now the
Executive Officer of the Group. He was chosen as the advanced party commander and I
was selected as the NCOIC. Contributing to my selection was the fact that my wife was
pregnant and was tentatively scheduled to give birth to our second child around the first
of March. Colonel Welch was an excellent military officer and a fine gentleman. When we arrived at Landstuhl the welcoming party officer in charge told the colonel he would show him his quarters. Colonel Welsh told him "I can usually take care of myself. First
I want to see where the men I have with me will be billeted and fed. I also want to see the quarters for our families. Then we'll get to the other details".
Colonel Welsh and I worked very closely the next few weeks and got to know each other
quite well. He was going to leave active duty and go back to teaching as soon as his two year tour was completed. He told me about his wife, his family, his home and the Univ- ersity of Tennessee where he taught. Apparently he was impressed with my service, character, and potential when he offered to put me through college when I got out of the Army. I told him I had about four years to serve on my present enlistment and I would soon have 3 dependents. He told me we could live in part of his house, and he would find me a job at the University to supplement my GI Bill allowance. I thanked him and told
him I would let him know at a later date. Obviously I didn't take advantage of his offer because by the time I reached the end of my enlistment there were too many other factors to consider, including the birth of a third child.
Our quarters at Ramstein Air Base were recently constructed multiple apartment structures. We lived on the third floor, accessible by stairs only. There was a large living - dining room that accommodated several pieces of furniture, a well equipped
kitchen, three bedrooms and a bath and a half. The government provided good quality
furniture, the only complaint by the nit-pickers was that all the furniture was of the same design and just like your neighbors. I thought we were extremely lucky to have such a mansion, a far cry from the places we had in France.
One evening as Berniece, Billy Piper [the wife of Master Sergeant Ralph who worked in our Operations Section] and I were playing hearts, Berniece said we better get her to the hospital. The ambulance took her to Landstuhl Army Hospital located on a high hill overlooking the German town of Landstuhl, where William John Auell junior was born a short time later on February 11 , 1954. A new German citizen, subject to military service when he becomes 18 years old. Achtung!
The officers and men of the 322nd Aviation Engineer Group just got nicely settled at the new home at Landstuhl Air Base when communication from the Department of Army notified the commander that replacements for the personnel of the 322nd would arrive in June 1954. Since most of the officers and men now in the 322nd were not due to rotate to the States until May or June 1955, these new replacements were not needed for a year. Being true to form, the powers in the Pentagon wouldn’t acknowledge their mistake or retract the orders, so by June there would be two people for each slot [another example of the inefficiency of Washington wheels that cost the taxpayers a bundle]. Colonel Young, the Group commander and Colonel Welsh summoned me to their office to tell me the 821st Aviation Engineer Battalion, currently under the Group, had a Master Sergeant [E7] slot vacant in the Operations Section [S3] at Dreaux Air Base in France, about 60 miles from Paris.
They would transfer me there so I could be promoted to Master Sergeant, but it would
involve moving back to France, which really didn’t appeal to us. Considering the alter-
natives, I assumed this was the best chance for promotion I would get in quite a while since it would take time to get to be known in a unit after returning to the States.
We moved to the Dreaux area and found a house in one of the little villages not too far from the base and I reported to the 821st EAB. When word got around Group head-
quarters back in Germany that I was being reassigned to Dreaux, several of my friends
applied for transfer to the 821st, some of them were E7s. These transfers filled all the E7
slots in the Battalion and left me once again working in an E7 slot but being unable to
get promoted because the Battalion now had their full compliment of Master Sergeants.
Nevertheless, I was assigned to the Operations Sergeant slot under a Major Ferrari and
a Captain Larson.
The commanding officer was a Lieutenant Colonel, a native Frenchman who became an American citizen and graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point. He was a brilliant engineer who liked to work with me in the planning of the various projects that had been assigned to this battalion. He had no faith in the Operations Section Major or the Captain, and would usually send them on an errand or home when we were working on the construction plans for the projects. He had good reason to be skeptical of the S3 officers. Every time the Major would get a telephone call about one of the projects, I would have to get on my phone and listen in on the conversation, then either shake my head to indicate yes or no, or write him a note with the answer. The Major, an Italian tailor from New York City rode around in his shiny Buick and always wore his Class A uniform, even out to the muddy construction sites. About the middle of every month he would call me into his office and ask "Do you have an extra $50 you could let me have until payday?". I usually let him have the money which he always repaid. The Captain spent most of his time trying to prove the inefficiency of the Major, or was out of the office doing who knows what????
The Colonel was a rare and unusual character. He was a tall slender man who would have looked good in a clean and serviceable uniform. However, I have never seen a soldier, especially an officer, that looked more shabby wearing the uniform of the United States Army. His wife apparently washed his tropical worsted uniforms with other family clothing so his TWs became a light purple instead of the light tan they were supposed to be. He wore shoes that had big holes in the bottom of them. I don’t think his brass had been polished since the day he left West Point, a little green along the edges. He drove an old rattle-trap Plymouth that had never known water except when it rained. His kids looked like poor ragamuffins and smelled as if they hadn't been very close to a bath tub in quite a while. He lived in a run down place not far from the base. But, he had an allotment to a bank in the States for over half of his pay every month. I often wondered if he made full colonel? probably he did, because he was a graduate of the Academy which qualifying him as one of the full-fledged ringknockers who had a better chance at getting promoted to full Colonel and into the General ranks that the average non-Academy officer.
The Battalion had several projects at the base including perimeter storm drainage and the construction of a 400 unit trailer court, both major projects. The Colonel would come over to the S3 Quonset building which was next to his Headquarters, and ask me to go with him to check the projects. He drove his own Jeep. When we arrived at a work site he would stop and ask a soldier that may be digging a ditch if he was getting tired. The soldiers usually answered that they were not tired, but the Colonel had him come over to the Jeep and would say something like "You look tired. You sit down here and rest. I'll do your job while you're resting". The soldier didn't know what to say or do, so he just sat down by the Jeep and watched his commanding officer dig a ditch. He would do the same thing if we stopped at a site where heavy equipment was working; I saw him operate a grader, a bulldozer and a roller. Quite a bird. As I said, a brilliant engineer, but a poor example of a military officer.
We lived in two different small towns near the air base, sharing the houses with Ralph and Billy Piper who had two small boys about the same ages as Cathy and Bill. The oldest boy fell madly in love with Cathy. Here again, the accommodations weren't comparable to on-post housing in Germany, or any other place for that matter. The Commissary and PX were in Paris so we made our trip to the big city about once a month. We tried to get all the supplies we needed at one time. One time we were returning from the commissary and decided to eat in a fancy looking French restaurant in one of the small towns along the way. The kids got French fries, coke and some other thing that I can’t remember. Berniece, Billy and I decided to splurge $25 on roast duck. [a lot of money in 54]. As the waitress was bringing the duck we commented how delicious it looked. When she put it on the table it was a different story. The pin feathers were still on the bird. This disgusting thing quickly destroyed our appetite so we finally ended up eating only the parsnips that came with the duck. A really expensive vegetable. We passed this place every time we went to Paris, but never got brave enough to try more of their French cuisine.
The year of 1955 finally arrived and we started thinking about going home. We had to decide which items we would take back to the States and what we would sell or give to someone. I sure wanted to get rid of that Plymouth , and we needed transportation when we got back to the States. We ordered a new 1955 Mercury 2 door hardtop from a dealer in New Jersey to be picked up when we got to the States. We left Dreaux and went to Paris where I sold the Plymouth. We took a train from Paris to Frankfurt, Germany and then went to Rhein-Main Air Base for our flight to the States. We boarded the 4 turbo-jet propeller plane and along with some of our friends settled down for our trip across the Atlantic. We taxied to the end of the runway, the pilot revved up to engines, then shut them down and announced that he "did not consider the plane worthy of transcontinental flight". We went back to the terminal and waited a couple of hours for the plane to be repaired. It now was about ten o'clock at night. Once again we boarded the plane and the pilot took the plane to the end of the runway and went through his pre-flight checks again. Once more, he repeated his previous comment and told us we would not leave before the next day. The following day we were a little hesitant to board the same plane, but we got settled down and waved goodbye to Europe, landing in New Jersey about 15 hours later.
I wanted to get down and kiss the ground. We were back in the good old U S of A.
The people that live in the larger towns and cities have much better accommodations, but nothing like those in most US locations. The more fortunate families may have a small car for which they waited years to get. Throughout Europe a large part of the popul- ation owned bicycles which they rode everywhere. There were hundreds of bicycles parked around big factories, but very few cars. The average Frenchman considered himself very fortunate if he was able to buy one car in his lifetime; most didn’t. The buildings in the towns and villages are marked with the scars of war. Entire blocks of cities in Germany lay in rubble. Some of the less fortunate individuals lived in cardboard boxes or lean-to shanties 8 years after the end of World War II. I last viewed these deplorable conditions in 1955, so I’m sure there have been many improvements since that time. Thank God I’m an American.
We took a taxi from the airport where we landed to the car dealer in New Jersey where we purchased to new Mercury. There it was sitting in front of the show room with its red paint and white roof gleaming in the sunlight! I was anxious to get behind the wheel of this beauty with white upholstery, AM radio, heater, power brakes, power steering and automatic transmission that cost $2500. After we completed all the paper work we headed northwest to good old Saegertown, Pennsylvania.
Our vacation in Pennsylvania completed, we started on our trip to Beale Air Force Base,
near Marysville and Yuba City, California. I was assigned to the Operations Section of another Aviation Engineer Battalion. Prior to leaving France I had applied for Officer
Candidate School. Within a few weeks I was interviewed by a board of officers at the
Presidio of California at San Francisco. We rented a small apartment in Marysville where we only lived for three months before we were traveling back across the States to Pennsylvania. I had been selected to attend OCS at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, a 3 month course.
I reported to Officers Candidate School and immediately embarked on one of the most
challenging and memorable experiences of my military career, at least up to that point.
I was wearing my Class A uniform on which my five stripes indicating my rank as a
Sergeant First Class.
A LESSON QUICKLY LEARNED
That’s when I got a chance to meet the Battery Commander, after which I called everyone and everything “Sir”. I had a hard time getting used to addressing the Battery Clerk, who was a Private First Class, as “Sir”, but I did. One quickly learns to accept the ration of humility, embarrassment and exhaustion that is dished out abundantly every day.
Zero week at OCS was the beginning of several weeks of unadulterated hell, supposedly designed to see if the soldier had the stuff to become a commissioned officer. It started by each dogface being issued a duffel bag full of field manuals and another duffel bag of field equipment. The manuals had to be lined up according to size, not in numerically or alphabetical order, which made about as much sense as some of the other things we had to do. We quickly learned the power and authority of the 'Red Bird', an upper classman who was in the last 2 months of the program. Their authority usually went to their heads making them the meanest bunch of bastards one could ever meet. They were much worse than the cadre and seemed to be everywhere. I suppose it was especially difficult for me to accept these young smart asses because I was 27 years old, had over 6 years of Army service, had achieved the next to the highest enlisted rank [at that time] and had a little experience in the Army and the world.. Nevertheless, I had to play the game for as long as I was there. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.
Going to the mess hall was a real treat. We would assemble on the street in front of the
barracks and march to the mess hall. The Mess Hall had 8 steps leading up to the front door. Each man was required to remove his cap [flying saucer; a cap with a bill like a policeman’s cap] with his right hand and place it under his left arm at the exact moment his left foot hit the first step. If the last man screwed up the entire platoon would be required to start over, taking up to ten or fifteen minutes each time there was a mistake. When you finally entered the mess hall you stood at attention, looking straight ahead. The 'Red Birds' would walk up and down the line of men to see if anyone 'dog eyed' [not looking straight ahead]. If you were accused of this terrible crime the 'Red Bird' took you on a tour of the mess hall totally embarrassing you and making you go to the end of the line. Once you arrived at the rack that held the trays you did a ‘right face’, came to ‘parade rest’ , removed a tray, came back to ‘attention’ and did a left face. A few steps further the same procedure was repeated at the silverware. Once you got to the serving line you silently received your food, then you went to one of the tables. At the table you spread your napkin on you lap and began eating your meal. One hand had to remain on your lap at all times. You had to eat 'square' meals, which meant you took food on your fork, lifted it straight up to the level of your mouth, then you moved it toward your mouth, opening your mouth at the exact moment the food arrived. You then reversed the procedure to return the fork to your tray while you chewed the food. You repeated this exercise until all the food was gone. And I do mean ALL.
A BREAKFAST TO REMEMBER
We finally completed ‘Week Zero’, the most grueling and miserable 7 days one could ever imagine, and we were now ready to begin our adventurous and very demoralizing task of getting a little gold bar on our shoulders. We were up each morning at 4 AM, getting ready for our first inspection at 6 AM before we went to breakfast. We wore at least two clean uniforms every day; sometimes more depending on what was going on that day. We always had to have a clean khaki uniform for the evening meal. You never wore the same uniform more than once without it being laundered. Laundry cost the candidate a small fortune.
The second week we spent several hours on the parade field. Each candidate had to demonstrate proficiency in the squad leader, platoon leader, battery commander, adjutant and battalion commander positions. To run everyone through all those positions took hours of marching up and down the field. After spending about ten hours on the parade field my left knee was swollen up so big I could barely get my pants off. The next morning it was still swollen so I was sent to the hospital for evaluation. The Orthopedic surgeon wanted to operate, but he said he was required to inform me that there was no guarantee of success and there was a fifty-fifty chance I would end up with a stiff leg. Oh no, not with my leg. I didn't like the odds so I refused the gamble and reconciled myself to the fact that I would never be a Second Lieutenant with a little shiny gold bar on my shoulder. That ended my short period as an officer candidate and I was transferred to a holding unit for further reassignment to a permanent unit. The first thing I did once I got out of my OCS uniform was go to the NCO club and ordered a great big greasy cheese- burger, fries and a double bourbon and water. Boy, did that taste good! And I picked that sucker up with both hands and took a big bite, then I ate my french fries without the use of a fork. What a slob. If I had still been a candidate I probably would have been flogged at sunrise.
I was the senior enlisted man in the holding unit, so I was appointed First Sergeant over about 30 men. People were being transferred in and out every day so you rarely got to know anyone. I was there about a week when I got orders for Fort Hood, Texas, the home of the Third Armored Division. The post was adjacent to the town of Killeen. I was assigned to the 24th Armored Engineer Battalion as a platoon sergeant. But first, I had to go back to Pennsylvania to get my family.
Shortly after I arrived at my duty station, the 4th Armored Division along with many other Army units from throughout the United States departed for maneuvers in Louisiana for an exercise known as 'Operation Sagebrush'. I was detailed as an Operations Sergeant and assistant to Captain Hester, a big burly Texan who was designated Brigade Engineer Operations Officer. Our mission was to determine the capacity of the roads and bridges in the area, suggest alternative routes when appropriate, arrange for heavy equipment to retrieve disabled or stuck tanks and other vehicles, and determine the manpower necessary to improve traveling conditions for the armored vehicles.
We had a jeep and a quarter-ton trailer driven by a wild character by the name of Smith who didn’t particularly care about taking orders; so we did a lot of turning around after he would go down the wrong road. We were on the go day and night, making it a lot more interesting than being confined to a certain job area with a platoon of men. We ate, slept and rode in that Jeep. When the C-Ration cans got to deep on the floor, we had Smitty perform a little first echelon maintenance. And Boy was there mud? Mud was everywhere; all over the vehicles and other equipment. Even the cooks had to set up their serving line in several inches of muck. The daily rain was cold and produced more mud.
One day we came across one of our construction platoons that was assigned the job of repairing a bridge. The platoon sergeant asked if we would put a couple cases of C Rations in our trailer and deliver them to him the next time we were in that area. When we got back to the base camp I told the mess sergeant to put two cases of rations in our trailer for one of the platoons out in the field. The next morning we were passing the platoons’ location so we dropped off the C-Rations and proceeded on our way. The following day we were in the platoon area again so the captain asked the sergeant if the rations helped out. I'll never forget this Sergeant Patterson, a tall black sergeant, when he said "Sir, if you're gonna bring us some more food like you brought yesterday, would you mind throwin’ in a couple rolls of toilet paper? You brought two cases of apricots".
We all had quite a laugh out of that, and the troops took it good naturedly, but we could understand their desire for some regular rations. As soon as we got back to base camp that day the captain had the driver deliver two cases of rations to Sergeant Patterson's platoon; and I made sure they were C-Rations before the driver left.
Thanksgiving morning of 1955 found us in a field near Deridder, Louisiana sitting in about 3 inches of water. Our air mattresses were floating. Everything was saturated. The noon meal was served from the side of the mess truck, each mess kit being filled with turkey, dressing, potatoes, gravy, rolls, pie and other goodies. It was raining so hard that by the time a man got back to his tent the food in his mess kit was running together to make a big cold mess of slop. I think there was more food thrown away that day than was eaten. I remembered a Thanksgiving dinner of past at the hospital mess hall at Warren Air Force Base, Wyoming. At least this turkey was thoroughly cooked and edible.
After 55 unforgettable days of Operation Sagebrush we returned to Fort Hood. We spent the rest of the year cleaning our equipment and getting it ready for a CMI [Command Maintenance Inspection]. A lot of people took leave over the holidays . Others started working on getting ready for our new assignment - basic training for new recruits. About six weeks after returning from Sagebrush the Division Engineer Sergeant was reassigned and I was selected to fill that position. It couldn't have happened to a more appreciative fellow. I was elated to be away from those grimy recruits, many of whom couldn't speak or understand English, or at least they pretended they didn't understand. A lot of Spanish speaking Caribbean Islanders were entered the service at this point. My immediate supervisor was Captain Moore. A very pleasant, soft spoken man that was easy to get along with. Our office was on the second floor of 3rd Armored Division headquarters. We were authorized one other enlisted man, a Map Distribution Specialist.
Our mission was to coordinate division engineering projects by getting military or civilian personnel to complete the desired tasks. This could involve anything from building a bridge in one of the tank training areas to processing a work order to replace a broken window. We were responsible for the requisition and distribution of all maps, some of which were wall size relief maps. [at one time a draftee with a masters degree in History was assigned to this map distributors job for training. One incident I remember was when I ask him how many maps were in a particular pile. He got 3 different answers after counting them three different times]. We were also responsible for conducting unannounced monthly fire drills in every unit on the post, culminating in a report that indicated response time and hazards noted during the inspection for each unit. The division commander was adamant about the fire prevention and safety programs so I didn’t play any games or overlook anything during my surprise inspections.
Fort Hood was not without its’ share of crazy rules and regulations instigated by the commanding general’. Every officer or enlisted man was required to wear a helmet liner, the only authorized headgear on the post. Each helmet liner had to bear the 3rd Armored Division emblem, the battalion emblem and rank. The liner was supposed to shine brilliantly. Most were waxed with car simonize. Being caught “uncovered” [not wearing a helmet liner] was a serious offense punishable by courts martial or non- judicial rules. The Military Police were required to issue tickets for non-compliance.
A GENERAL’S ORDER
We moved out of the mobile home after I returned from Sagebrush and rented one side
of a duplex on a hill about a mile from Killeen. The other side was occupied by Tom and
June Myers who we met in France when he was assigned to my old position as Utility
Inspector. On September 9, 1956 Michael Carl Auell was born at the station hospital
at Fort Hood, our third child.
Captain Moore, a Specialist-4 Williams assigned to our office and myself were designated as ‘couriers’. We really didn't know what this designation meant until one day in the spring of 1956 we were notified at 2 PM that we would be leaving on a mission at 4 PM that day. This didn't give us much time to get ready, but we were able to pack
a light bag and report to the Post Headquarters Intelligence Section [S2] for further
instruction. Another grunt was added to our team, making a complement of l officer,
1 NCO and two peons. We were taken to a classified air base near Fort Hood where we were issued parachutes and then boarded a plane. We landed in Delaware that evening and were escorted to the dining hall for supper. About two hours after we had first landed we were back on the plane heading east. The Captain opened the envelope he had received when we were at Dover airfield; withdrawing a single sheet of paper containing instructions if we had to jettison some of the cargo; basically floatation devices were attached to each container and if a container had to be thrown overboard a soldier would leave the plane with the cargo and stay with it until rescued. Of course, smoking was prohibited. We landed in the Azore Islands and as soon as we got a safe distance from the plane the Captain and I lit up. A cigarette was hanging from his mouth when he said to me "Hey Sarge, let me have a cigarette, will you?". I told him he already had one lit. He was having a real nicotine fit. When we finished our meal we boarded the plane. Five hours after leaving the Azores the Captain was permitted to open the final envelope. The previous plan for dumping the cargo was reiterated and we were informed our final destination was Rhein Main Air Base near Frankfurt, West Germany. As soon as we landed and pulled off the runway, the plane was surrounded by several military police in jeeps, tanks and armored personnel carriers, each sporting 50 caliber machine guns and cannons. We were taken to an awaiting military sedan and rushed to the airport office, then taken to a nearby hotel. Our suspicions were later confirmed; we were carrying sensitive [nuclear] weapon components, which was a hush-hush deal in 1956. Saturday was drawing to a close, so the Captain told us to get some rest and meet him at the airport at 9 AM Tuesday. We saw some sites in Frankfurt and the grunts were happy they had made the trip. We arrived back at Fort Hood on Thursday just in time for a well earned weekend of rest.
May 1957 found me at the end of my enlistment. I was a Sergeant First Class with over four years in grade. Every time I thought I had a chance to make E7, I ended up in the right place at the wrong time, or the wrong place at the right time. Promotions were just about frozen, so the chance of getting promoted was slim or next to none. I had eight and a half years of service, but was willing to give that up for a good job. I submitted an application, was tested, interviewed and accepted by Metropolitan Insurance Company in Austin, Texas where I intended to go to work after I was discharged.
After considering spending our life in Austin, we decided to go back to Pennsylvania to seek our fortune. I was contacted by the Metropolitan Regional Manager in Oil City and he made arrangements for me to attend a two-week course in New Jersey, then come back and have a debit route in the Oil City - Franklin area. Meanwhile I visited the Army Recruiting Office in Meadville to see if there were any fields open where I could advance in rank. The day before I was supposed to leave for New Jersey I called the Manager and told him I would not be going to the school. I re-enlisted in the Army for four years providing I was accepted for the Nike Ajax Electronics School at Fort Bliss, Texas. I was sworn in exactly eighty days after I was discharged in Fort Hood, Texas. Since this was legally my “first reenlistment”, I was authorized 30 days pay for each year of re-enlistment. or 4 months base pay. I received a total of $880 less taxes . It’s was quite clear, the Army wasn’t guilty of squandering their allocated funds for troop salaries.
I reported to Fort Jackson, South Carolina for reentry processing into the Army. There were about 200 men assigned to the processing detachment at any given times, all of them being reassigned to another unit or post somewhere in the world. At the morning formation all master sergeants and sergeants first class were assigned a specific task with a given group of men. [This was done so it would look like the top two graders were doing something, but in reality the task took less than five minutes]. The detail was quickly turned over to an E5 or E4 and the senior sergeants spent the rest of the day at the NCO Club, PX or at appointments.
After completing all the paper work and other gobbly-gook in about 3 days I returned to Pennsylvania to pick up the family and move them to El Paso, Texas. Once again, under the protective arm of the United States Army; and I was comfortable with my decision.
I guess after serving over 8 years it’s in your blood. I sure didn’t want to remain a civilian if I had to work at the menial jobs that might have been available to me just to scratch out a meager living for my family. We deserved better than that and it was up to me to get it for them.
We finally pulled into the city of El Paso in the big Lone Star State. Cathy was 6, Bill was 3 and Michael was 1. Our entourage also included our little reddish-brown mutt named Freddie. We found a small apartment near the main gate of Fort Bliss and I reported to my new training unit. We soon realized we couldn’t survive in that small apartment much longer, so we started to look for a bigger place. We discovered that we could buy a new house for less money a month than rent would be on an apartment. We bought a new 3 bedroom in a new residential tract about 4 miles east of Fort Bliss. It wasn’t bad for the price of $5700.
Shortly after we moved into our new home I bought a used Vespa motor scooter to travel
back and forth to school and later to work. It cut down on our gas expense and Berniece had our 1954 Buick Super to do the shopping and hauling the kids where they had to go.
I worked on the scooter and had it looking pretty nice with a new paint job and a wire basket on the front to carry my books. One afternoon Berniece said she wanted to ride the scooter. I made sure she knew how to use the hand throttle that automatically returned to the idle position when released, the clutch and shifting mechanism, and most importantly the brake. She assured me she understood and had no questions. She went about 300 feet, turned right, went one block and turned right onto the street that ran parallel to our street in the development. She seemed to be gone a long time for just going around the block, so I loaded the kids and dog in car and went looking for her. It didn’t take to long to find her. She was trying to get up from the sandy ground where she had landed when she flew off the scooter. Apparently when she got on the street behind our house she gave it full throttle, then became frightened and held it wide open until she hit the high curb at the next intersection in an area that had not been developed yet. When she hit the curb she was thrown from the scooter and landed on her face. Luckily the scooter didn’t follow her trajectory and landed a few feet from her. She had a nasty burn on one side of her swollen face, and plenty of aches and pains for quite a while. She never again wanted to ride the scooter. I picked up the scooter and began my rebuilding project that included replacing the steering fork and several other parts. A couple more minor accidents convinced me to get rid of it before someone got more seriously hurt or disabled.
Within a few months we sold our first house and bought a 3 bedroom brick home nearer Fort Bliss and in a little better section of town; plus it had a second bathroom and a back yard enclosed by a 4 foot rock wall. Of course, the yard was nothing but sand, little sharp thorns, and an occasional stray tumbleweed blowing in from the West.
The Electronics and Ajax Missile Maintenance class consisted of about 40 men, mostly first three graders [MSgt, SFC and SSgt]. Several in the class had been commissioned officers who were recently released from active duty due to the Reduction in Forces [RIF] that took place earlier in 1957. This action by the Army had a demoralizing effect on the senior NCOs because these former officers were giving a date of rank that went back to when they were commissioned, thereby being higher on the promotion list than most of the NCOs, including me. And those former commissioned officers that were appointed as warrant officers were appointed as a W2.
The course was not as easy for me as it was for those who had experience with radio and other electronic equipment. My only experience in anything concerning electricity was the training I had in vocational high school 13 years prior to this course. I had a pretty good grasp of electrical theory, but I still had to work hard to refresh my memory.
After we completed the 9 month course, we immediately entered into the 3 month course covering the Hercules missile.
After graduation from the United States Army Air Defense School Nike Ajax and Nike
Hercules Missile Maintenance Courses, I and several others that didn’t come from active missile sites, were assigned to a training battery and I was further assigned to a launcher training site with the responsibility of equipment maintenance and teaching students, many of whom were foreign nationals, how to use the equipment. We usually had Saturday morning inspections and several times spent the afternoon working on the trucks in the battalion motor pool. I could never understand why the US Army couldn’t master the art of keeping vehicles in operational condition. At one of these work sessions a Buck Sergeant who was married and had 3 children, was repairing a flat tire from one of the trucks. When he applied air pressure to the tire the retainer ring on the wheel sprang off and hit him in the head, killing him instantly. Shortly thereafter every motor pool had a 2 inch steel pipe enclosure that would contain any part of the wheel that came loose when the tire was being inflated. Lock the barn after the horse is stolen. I’ll bet the sergeant’s widow and children wondered why this gadget couldn’t have been installed prior to the accident. One would think that a simple apparatus like the enclosure would have been thought of years previously, especially since the Army employs high- priced “Engineers” and awards lucrative contracts to manufacturers. It just did not make sense.
A BAR ON MY SHOULDER
I was assigned to McGregor Guided Missile Range, New Mexico, about 28 miles north of El Paso. The range was named in honor of a prominent family of cattle ranchers who had used the land for several decades. It covered an area of approximately 2800 square miles, about the size of the Commonwealth of Rhode Island. It was adjacent to the White Sands Missile Range on the west and Fort Bliss on the south. The terrain was primarily flat around the firing sites covered with sand, tumbleweed, mesquite, sagebrush, and more sand. Down range where the ranchers lived was moderately fertile land, setting up on a large mesa. The wind was frequently of such strength that it played havoc with automobile paint, chrome and glass, or any other finished surfaces. There were several occupied ranches on the range that were within a potential danger zone during missile firings. These folks had to be evacuated prior to firing a missile. Guards were posted at the entrance of all access roads to prohibit travel on the range during the launching time, normally Wednesday afternoon, Thursday and at times Friday. Prior to the construction and activation of McGregor, the Ajax Surface to Air Missile {SAM] was fired from Oro Grande Missile Range, a much smaller facility about 25 miles north of McGregor. There was an abundance of coyote, jack rabbits and rattlesnakes at both areas. Too many for me. It was reported that a mountain lions family took up residence in a cave to the southeast of Launcher pad #1. Could be!! I never met anyone who was brave enough to check it out.
The missile range complex was comprised of an administrative area with offices, mess facilities, quarters for officers and enlisted men, a large motor pool, several missile assembly buildings, maintenance facilities and the appropriate utility structures. The down-range portion of the range consisted of 26 fire control sites, each with its own launching area. A Range Control system situated on the highest point on the range had visual and command control of all the sites. The planners of the facility were derelict in failing to provide adequate on-site recreational facilities, particularly since the outpost was so isolated and far away from the recreational facilities at Fort Bliss. It took several years just to get a movie theater at McGregor Range.
McGregor was the home of Range Command, a military organization responsible for supporting all aspects of preparing and firing Nike Ajax, Nike Hercules and Hawk surface to air guided missiles. There were approximately 60 commissioned officers, 20 warrant officers, 1000 enlisted men and 50 Civil Service personnel assigned to the Command. Range Command was a subordinate unit of an Air Defense Brigade based at Fort Bliss.
Each Nike Ajax, Nike Hercules and later Hawk firing battery was incorporated into the world-wide surface to air missile defense system and was required to assemble and fire one or two missiles every year. This system was known as' Annual Service Practice'. All US and several foreign units returned to McGregor each year for their ASP. There was one exception to this procedure, the units stationed in Alaska used a missile range at Eilson Air Force Base north of the city of Fairbanks [I had the distinct pleasure??? of visiting this isolated mountain top six times during my 3 years in Alaska]. All of the operation, from removing the missile from its shipping container through the acquisition and destruction of the target, was evaluated at the McGregor assembly, fire control and launching sites by commissioned and warrant officers assigned directly to the North American Air Defense Command [NORAD], headquarters in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Failure to achieve a satisfactory evaluation could have dire consequences, including the relieving of officers, warrant officers and enlisted men of their positions, and returning to McGregor within 3 months to try it again, or both. Some personnel of the ASP unit couldn’t endure the embarrassment and dejection associated with the failure to accomplish their mission. Naturally, the ASP crew felt bad about their shortcoming, especially if it was the result of their mistakes or omissions. But it wasn’t the end of the world. Yet there were those that couldn’t stand the outcome of their failure, and would attempt to relieve the pressure by doing some bizarre action [one Master Sergeant took his own life by drinking a can of Brasso after his unit failed the ASP tests]. It was absolutely essential to have officers, warrant officers and senior NCOs who could maintain their own mental stability, thereby assisting their subordinates through depressing situations and taking immediate positive action to assure the unit wasn’t completely demoralized.
The support of ASP units presented gigantic logistical challenges to the Command. On a weekly basis, exclusive of 2 weeks at Christmas and New Years, great quantities of food and expendable supplies were needed for the permanent personnel of nearly a 1000 men and a potential 300 ASP personnel. Fire control and launcher sites down range had to be maintained in tip-top condition. Each unit would have the use of 2 deuce-and-a-half trucks, 2 jeeps and 1 three-quarter ton truck, all with Range Command drivers. Buses provided transportation into El Paso after duty hours. Over 3600 meals had to be prepared every day the ASP unit was at the range. Large commitments of support personnel were required on a daily basis.
To gain some insight about the size of this operation, consider the amount of equipment at McGregor Range, all requiring operators and maintenance personnel: There were 7 complete fire control systems valued at over $10M each. There were 54 missile launchers, over 60 launching rails, 6 complex Launching Control Trailers and 6 Section Control systems down range. That’s a lot of equipment. The equivalent of 6 active Nike firing batteries.
There were 36 two-and-a-half ton trucks, 40 three-quarter ton trucks, 30 Jeeps, 5 wreckers, 5 tractor-trailer combinations, 20 pick-up trucks, 10 buses and 3 sedans in the Motor Pool. The Engineer Department had 40 Generators, 10 air compressors, and 3 portable welders. The Launcher Maintenance Section was responsible for all launcher equipment and over 4000 electrical cables, some 5280 feet long, that were used at the range. Presenting this information may be boring to some, but it was felt that to get a picture of the size and complexity of McGregor Range it was necessary to include some cold and hard facts and figures. I happen to know this information since I was asssigned to several different departments during my tenure on the Range.
"Warrant Officer William J. Auell reporting, Sir", I addressed my new commander, Major Billy Strong. Major Strong had been a Major for several years, normal for the pre-Viet-Nam army. He was a small, ruddy man with a good sense of humor. He was constantly trying to improve the living conditions of his enlisted men, never forgetting his time as an enlisted man himself. There was two things I admired about this man; his concern for the welfare of his troops and his willingness to make on-the-spot decisions, unlike many officers who hem and haw about the slightest thing and refuse to take responsibility commensurate with their rank.
Assignment to McGregor Range was a large part of my military career where I started my service as a United States Army Warrant Officer. I spent a total of 10 years and 4 months as a member of the Range Command; 7 years before being assigned to Alaska and the remainder after I returned to the lower forty-eight. No other person, officer or enlisted, had more service at the Range than I did when I retired in September 1972. Perhaps I have been displaced, but I doubt it because the mission and purpose of McGregor Range was later changed with the obsolescence of the Nike air defense system. During my tours I met some very fine officers, enlisted men and civilians. I also met a few jerks. That’s par for the course anywhere in military or civilian life. Who knows, maybe I was one of the jerks! I knew most of the Range operation like the back of my hand. After I had been there a few years I was frequently contacted for information and suggestions. Sometimes I felt like I was the mayor of this barren spot; an abundance of responsibility and no authority. During my tours at the Range I helped create several systems and procedures that were adopted and used for a long time, hopefully for the good of the personnel and the betterment of the facility.
My first duty assignment at the Range was the of the Launcher Maintenance Section. There were 20 men assigned to service and maintained all the launcher area equipment and cables on the range. It took the next 3 months to inventory all the equipment and several thousand electrical cables that were the responsibility of this section. I promptly learned there’s more to this game than the information and data presented in the Nike course or that meets the eye of an inexperienced observer. Replacement of faulty equipment or cables was not an easy task; it involved a lot of coordination, safety, manpower and equipment. I approached this task with the zest of a proud new warrant officer who had finally got his bar on his shoulder, but I never forgot the contributions made by the enlisted men. I kept my mouth shut and listened to those seasoned sergeants, which I was one of in the recent past, albeit in a different field of military specialty.
No sooner had I settled down in my new job when I was given the additional duty as OIC of the Engineer Section with 25 men and another bunch of new equipment, some of which I had little knowledge and no experience. I had my hands full, especially since I had never seen some of the special equipment that was now my responsibility. That can be a dangerous situation, especially if the officer is not smart enough to call on the expertise of his subordinates and keep his trap shut until he learns something. Here again I paid attention to the sergeants that seemed to have a lot on the ball. I learned a lot from them as they went about their daily tasks. After a few months I felt pretty confident about my job, and enjoyed working with my crews
Major Strong retired in 1960 and was replaced by a Lieutenant Colonel that was so unimpressive I don't even remember his name. Major Eugene Towne arrived to be the Range Executive Officer. One hot and sunny June day of 1960 the Sergeant Major called to tell me the Range Commander wanted to see me immediately. All sorts of things entered my mind but I had no idea what this was all about. Had I goofed up? They certainly weren't calling me to pin a medal on my chest; I hadn't done anything to deserve it. None of my men were in trouble, at least I didn't know about it, so it couldn’t be that. Beats me, I couldn’t think of what they wanted with me. I found out soon enough.
I walked into the Headquarters and reported to the Range Commander. He introduced me to the Brigade Commander [one star] and Major Towne, then asked me to sit down. I obeyed. "Mr. Auell, have you ever been a Motor Officer or Motor Sergeant?". "No Sir", I answered. "Well, this command hasn't received a passing grade for a Command Maintenance Inspection of the motor pool in three years. We cannot tolerate that any longer. We are going to relieve Mr. B>>>>> and assign you to the motor pool as your primary duty. We want you to straighten out that mess ". "But Sir, I have no experience whatsoever. I don't even have military drivers license", I pleaded. "You'll learn. When I was a young lieutenant I was the motor officer and I was there when the first vehicle left in the morning and I was there when the last vehicle came in at night. You do the same and you'll be all right. Thank you Mr. Auell, you will work directly under the supervision of Major Towne. I know you don't have any questions, so you are excused." were the final words of the colonel. "Thanks a lot, you s-- -- - -----" I whispered under my breath. In retrospect, the assignment to the motor pool was a challenging experience that taught me several techniques that I have used successfully ever since. Most everything has some good about it; the secret is recognizing it.
I arrived at the motor pool the next morning and was greeted by my new team of 125 men, including 8 sergeants, a motor sergeant and a maintenance sergeant. Well, here
we go! This would be one of the most formidable tasks I had ever lived through, at least
so far in my 32 years of existence. Anyone who has spent much time in the Army knows
that the cream of the crop troopers are not in the motor pool; if the powers in charge didn't know what to do with some one they put them in the motor pool.
A case in point was a Private Brown, a draftee who hailed from Nome, Alaska where he must have spent too much time chewing his blubber during one of those long hard winters. He was an assigned driver and had been in the motor pool 9 months when I got there. One of the problems was that he didn't have a military drivers’ license because no one ever sent him to the vehicular training and testing center at Fort Bliss, assuming that he couldn't pass the course. I personally interviewed him and he assured me he had Alaska drivers’ license, but he didn't exactly say it was for a motor vehicle, and could have been for his dog sled, reindeer or mukluks. After the interview I only had one question in my mind "What was I supposed to do with him?". Let’s give him a chance. We sent him to the driver’s course and he got his license, after taking 5 weeks to complete the 1 week course. But what the heck, at least he made it. He was assigned a jeep and the job as an ASP driver. One Monday morning about 8:10 AM a visiting ASP Captain, who appeared to be quite upset, came into my office and said to me "Chief, I'm not riding with that lunatic, he scared the living hell out of us". "Hold on Captain, what's the problem?" I asked. "He doesn't slow down for curves or corners, he just keeps his foot on the pedal and goes like hell. We almost rolled over twice since we left here 5 minutes ago" was his answer. I gave him another driver and suggested to the Motor Sergeant that we do a little more training with this snowbird. Finally, after many hours of trying to teach him how to operate a motor vehicle, we assigned him to a jeep that was on jack stands at the rear of the maintenance shop because we were waiting for an engine for it. We had also removed the tires that we needed for another vehicle. I wanted to assign him as the colonel's sedan driver, but I thought better of it since I was still hoping for W2 bars. He spent his remaining time until his discharge making sure there was no dust on his jeep. I'll bet the natives weren’t too happy to see him return to Polar Bear land; probably still cursing the Army for that dastardly deed of sending him to drivers’ school in the lower forty-eight and then sending him back home to burn up the roads.