History: Seven-Year Military Odyssey; Shreveport, Caddo Par., Louisiana Submitter: Frank M. Smart Date: Nov. 2001 ********************************************** Copyright. All rights reserved. http://usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm http://usgwarchives.net/la/lafiles.htm ********************************************** MY SEVEN-YEAR MILITARY ODYSSEY OR HOW DID MRS. SMART’S ONLY BOY GET IN THIS MESS Third sidebar to Sheetmetal story Nov, 2001 It was about the 27th of June, 1968, just before noon. I remember because I had not had breakfast and I was hungry. I was lying in a muddy rice field, trying to dig a hole in the ground with my nose, AK-47 rounds chewing up the ground around me and cracking overhead. That’s right. Bullets crack, not whizz or whine. For some silly reason I thought–“How did Mrs. Smart’s only boy get himself in this mess.?” The mess started in September, 1964 when I got drafted into the United States Army and sent to Ft. Polk, La., for Basic Training. The Smart family had been in the Ft. Polk/Leesville, La., area since about 1845, altho I had been born and raised in Shreveport. Well, basic is basic and my seven-year military odyssey was on. Basic was not all that bad. I had a weekend pass almost every weekend since my platoon was always tops in the Saturday morning inspection. We got to sign out at noon and I, along with several new-found Army buddies would head to my folks house on Southern Avenue in Shreveport and party time. Basic over and done with and it was on to Advanced Training–in my case Military Police training at Ft. Gordon, Georgia. My first plane ride out of England Air Force Base in Alexandria was uneventful but as we were coming in to land at Busch Field at Ft. Gordon I saw a strange sight–black smoke was pouring out of huge chimneys on each Army barracks. I was from the Ark-La-Tex area where natural gas was king. I had never seen a coal burning furnace before. Ft. Gordon was no fun. There was snow on the ground and they wanted to make me a Military Policeman. No way, Jose. That didn’t fit my image of me as a soldier. Now I don’t really remember what image I had of myself as a soldier, I just remember being an MP wasn’t it. We went through a process called “Belt Line”. Actually this is just an administrative procedure to check your records, etc. In the old days the Army wanted their MPs to look sharp. If you were XXX tall, then your waist, i.e. ‘Belt Line’, could only be XX inches. In other words, potbellied was out, slim and trim was in. Thus the term “Belt Line”. I had no trouble there. I was 6 feet tall and weighed about 185 pounds and was a little older than most of the draftees, 24 ˝. Prime candidate to be an MP. Going through “Belt Line” proved to be a life saver. They discovered that I had a Careless and Reckless driving citation and Army regulations dictated that you could not be an MP if you had a traffic fine for a moving violation of over $50. Mine was $78 plus court costs. Money well spent as it happened. The violation which saved me from Mpdom was issued by Bossier City police Lieutenant Billy Jones, who caught me driving too fast, racking off the mufflers in Tommy Garlands 56' Ford, and I was a little tight at the time. Lt. Jones, a family friend, cut me some slack Page 2 and gave me the C & R instead of a drunk driving ticket. Lt. Jones’ daughter, Billy Jean was Mrs. Hank Williams, Number 2 and later Mrs. Johnny Horton. Well, that settled that Army’s hash over whether Mrs. Smart’s only boy would be an MP or not. I had dodged that bullet, no pun intended. But then the frightening thought hit me–what’s next? What will the Army do with me now–surely not the Infantry? That was another image I did not have of me in uniform. Well, I dodged another bullet after a fashion and the Army in it’s infinite wisdom choose to make me a Combat Engineer. As we used to say, “Last week I couldn’t even spell Engineer, now I are one”. A Combat Engineer is just an Infantryman who blows things up and builds bridges in support of the other combat arms. Seems my scores on my AFQB (Armed Forces Qualification Battery) was high in some areas that indicated that I would be a great Combat Engineer. Fat chance. I don’t like loud noises. Anyway, engineer training was over and after a short visit to Shreveport I shipped out for Germany in February, 1965, now a highly-trained builder of MT-46 Floating Bridges, Bailey Bridges and skilled blower of tank traps. I arrived at Johnson Kaserne, Furth, Germany, near Nuremberg, in March, 1965. This former German Army post was to be my home for the next 21 eventful months. It was the home of the 24th Combat Engineer Battalion of the famed 4th Armored Division. I was assigned to B Company, Captain Karl P. Piotrowski, commanding. There were three of us from my engineer training unit who walked into the Orderly Room that day, where we met the company’s acting first sergeant, Henry Randall. Sergeant Randall, after a short introduction, asked if any of us could type. My hand went up like a shot and I assured him I was a typing wiz. In reality I had not typed in about 2 ˝ years, but I was good back then. Went through Mrs. Carmichael’s typing class at C.E. Byrd High School–twice in fact. Flunked the first time. Not my fault. After getting settled down in our new home, I went to the Orderly Room and introduced myself to Sgt. C.Y. Willis, who was Charge of Quarters at the time. I explained my plight to him and he let me use the company clerk’s typewriter, supplied me with paper and I quickly boned up on my typing. I think Willis figured that I might be the next company clerk and he would get in good with me if that was the case. It was and he did. Howie Feinsod, a Jewish kid from Union City, N.J. taught me to be the Company Clerk. That was a powerful and prestigious job. You didn’t mess with the C.C., or else your pay records might wind up in Korea, plus I pulled no KP, no Guard Duty, Fire Guard, etc. By the time Howie left I was a highly-trained typer of Morning Reports, Efficiency Reports, Training Schedules, lists of those eligible for promotion, of which my name was always on top and the list for Overnight Passes, of which my name was also always on top. To cut a long story short I was soon married to a young German girl, Elfriede Luise Mailer, with a child on the way and not wanting to get out of the Army and go back to Shreveport and the sheetmetal trade. So, I opted to enlist for six years to become an Army journalist with the hope of one day Page3 working in an Army historical unit. Of course, the Army in it’s infinite wisdom never let me get near one. After Army journalism school at Ft. Benjamin Harrison, Ind., and an 11-month tour of duty at Ft. Sill, OK., I received orders for the Republic of South Vietnam. At this time that did not seem like the worst thing in the world. From about the age of 12 I had been a military history buff. I studied the Civil War, World War II and Korea and other wars that America had been involved in. Along the way I became enamored of men like Generals Robert E. Lee, Pete Johnston, George Picket, George C. Marshall, George Patton, Ike, Omar Bradley, and enlisted men like Audie Murphy and one of my favorites, Lt. Gen., Joseph “Lightning Joe” Collins. And on the civilian side–the greatest war journalist of all time–Ernie Pyle. And now I was off to report on a war–history in the making and I was going to be a part of it. I arrived in Cam Ranh Bay in mid-April, 1968, at the 22nd Repo Depot with orders for 2nd Field Force headquarters in Vung Tau. When I told a guy what my assignment was he said, “Wow, that’s the military’s in-country R & R place. You probably will not get to see the war.” My remark back to him was ,“Well, it’s a dirty job and someone has to do it.” But, the Army in it’s infinite wisdom changed their minds and sent me instead to the famed First Cavalry Division (Airmobile), then stationed in I Corps in the northernmost portion of South Vietnam. The First Cav, the First Team, renowned fighting unit whose lineage went back to pre-Civil War days. Then-Colonel Robert E. Lee commanded the 5th Cavalry and George Custer commanded the 7th Cavalry. Great history, great combat record and I was going to be part of it. As it turned out it, The First Cav, would always be a part of me. To this day I wear the famous ‘horsehead’ insignia on my Wal*Mart name badge for all to see. Once Cav, always Cav. (See sidebar, “A Day In The Life Of A Combat Reporter/Photographer”) That year, from April, 1968 to April, 1969, was in parts exciting, scary as hell, sad, discouraging, disappointing, uncomfortable and educational in many ways.. I was one of the lucky Vietnam vets. I escaped without injury–physical or emotional. One reason was that I was a good ‘ducker’. When the first round went off, I was on the ground. And I believe the other reasons were that I was 28 years old, my personality was set and I knew who and what I was and had a lot of confidence in myself. I knew weapons having grown up hunting with Daddy, had been in the military 3 ˝ years, had been initially trained in the combat arms and I knew how to take care of myself in the field. I had a lot of wood lore. And that takes me back to the start of this story, stuck in a rice paddy with the bad guys trying to shoot me and my fellows. After spending several hundreds of thousands of American dollars blasting away at him with artillery, air strikes, helicopter gunships and assaulting with fully-automatic rifle fire, M-79 Grenade launchers and hand grenades, the bad guys simply faded into the jungle and the hunt was on again. Life in the ‘Nam, life in the Cav and the war went on for six more years. Page 4 Vietnam was a watershed in my life. An experience that will stay with me forever, and if I am like the older veterans I am frequently around, the stories will grow in importance, the funny times, funnier, the friendships closer, the events more important. But I have never lost sight of the fact that I am indeed lucky to have survived this dangerous, year-long experience intact, wiser and prouder and I take great comfort in the knowledge that I still have the honor and privilege of continuing to serve–serving those who served for the past 14 years as a veterans activist here in Tuolumne County, Sonora, Ca. In 1987 I started a Vietnam veterans group in this county which is now Chapter 391, Vietnam Veterans of America, Inc. The national motto of that group is “Never again shall one group of veterans, abandon another.” All veterans are a band of brothers. Don’t forget your brothers on Veterans Day and Memorial Day. –30–