I wrote what follows back in 1996. Someone on the original West Point Forum had mentioned the incident and it had been like the exercise we’d done back in school where a person whispers something in someone’s ear, who then whispers it in another’s ear, and then another, and so on, until the last person hears something only loosely resembling what had been whispered at the outset.
Because it had been such an unpopular war the post-Vietnam Army suffered from a largely undeserved amount of inspection and introspection. In our unit, the 1st AIT (Advanced Individual Training) Brigade, it seemed that every week one of the trainees had phoned home, cried to mama, and she had called her congressman who, in turn, sensed a path to fame and instigated an investigation. The Army of the time, being under a microscope, afforded an easy target. Commanders were gun-shy and consequently, in many units, discipline suffered.
This is a vignette of Fort Benning in the mid-70s, back when it was still the Home of the by-God, United States Army Infantry. Before it was combined with the Armor School and renamed to the ridiculous, “Maneuver Center of Excellence”. Sounds like a damn dance school.
The 1st AIT Brigade has since become OSUT.
Some of the names have been changed to spare the guilty. Rated “R” for language.
This is what happened. I was there.
The trainee was emotionally destroyed. Haughty and arrogant just moments before, he now cried openly. The training cadre had to call them soldiers, though they were far from having earned the title. There was to be no swearing, either at them or in their presence. They must get eight hours of sleep, three full meals each day, must not be overworked. They were treated well, too well for trainees, these kids from the streets, these hoodlums. And they were quick to realize their situation and to take advantage of it when the opportunity presented itself. But not this one. Not this punk. Not now. He cried uncontrollably and he sobbed, as a small child sobs, his body shaking with waves of fear and anguish. The gaping maw of a military .45 pistol loomed inches from his head. The Lieutenant holding it now spoke in a voice so infused with anger and adrenaline that it appeared to emanate from someone else:
“You get your useless ass down to the Orderly Room and pull your duty!”
Gathering what remained of his physical control, the trainee slowly rose to his feet then quickly walked to the door. The Lieutenant watched through the window as the trainee broke into a run once outside. The Lieutenant dropped the magazine from the pistol and placed it on the table. Pulling the slide to the rear, he ejected the round in the chamber, loaded it back into the magazine, and handed the magazine and pistol back to the CQ. Taking a deep breath he walked out the door, the CQ runner falling in beside him. Behind him, the Lieutenant could hear the sounds of the mess hall returning to some semblance of normal.
The spartan buildings of the training unit of Fort Benning’s Harmony Church area contrasted starkly against the natural beauty of the towering pines and lush vegetation of western Georgia. It was warm, warmer than usual for a Fall day. Though it seemed like weeks before, in fact little more than five minutes had passed since the CQ runner had returned to the Orderly Room from his mission. His features displaying grave concern, he had approached the Lieutenant.
“Sir?”
The Lieutenant, the only company officer other than the Company Commander, had looked up from his desk.
“Yes?”
The CQ runner assisted the CQ by running errands and doing small jobs as needed. He was a holdover from a previous training cycle. He had been injured and would be assigned to the then current class of trainees when his injuries healed. The Lieutenant, as Executive Officer/Training Officer, had sent the runner to the barracks to alert the next man on the CQ runner duty roster of any specific instructions regarding his upcoming tour of duty.
“Sir…well…uh…”
“What? Spit it out!”
“Well, sir, Folson said…well, his exact words were, ‘Tell the Lieutenant I’m not pulling any fucking duty!'”
And with those words the rampant lack of respect for authority among the trainees had reached out and slapped the Lieutenant in the face. The complaints by the Drill Sergeants that their hands were tied, the ludicrous letters of reprimand proffered for major offenses, the blind eye turned toward overt drug usage and numerous other lapses of individual and unit discipline had, for the Lieutenant, reached an inevitable climax. On the way to the barracks to “see” Folson, the CQ runner following closely behind, the Lieutenant’s mind had been a churning caldron of alternatives. He had to do something. Reporting to the Company Commander would be useless, nothing would be done. The Battalion Commander would most certainly refer the situation back to the Company Commander for disposition. So too would the Brigade Commander; the Lieutenant’s company was the first in the newly formed brigade to pass an Inspector General’s inspection and the Company Commander was thus held in high esteem by the Brigade Commander. To go to the IG at the installation level was out of the question, the Lieutenant was certain that such a move would “black ball” him throughout the army.
The CQ, returning from an impromptu barracks walk-through, met them on the sidewalk midway between the barracks and the Orderly Room. The Lieutenant asked him if he’d seen Folson.
“Yes, sir. He just went into the chow hall.”
All CQs in the battalion carried M1911A1 .45 caliber pistols as sidearms. It had been the Battalion Commander’s idea that the CQs could act as a “ready reaction force” able to quickly respond in the event a company arms room was broken into. The arms rooms housed M16s, M14s and M60 machine guns. The CQs would surround and contain the perpetrators in the event of a break-in. They would do this with pistols.
Without hesitation the Lieutenant said, “Give me your weapon.”
The CQ surrendered the .45 and magazine. The Lieutenant inserted the magazine into the pistol. This was familiar. Since that day long ago, on a grassy hillside in Germany, when his father had taught a six year old son “how it was done” with the .45, the Lieutenant had enjoyed a kinship with this weapon. Constant practice with his own personal pistol had honed his marksmanship skills and confidence to a level unattainable through the army’s “familiarization firing” program. The Lieutenant worked the pistol’s slide, loading a round into the chamber. Thumbing the safety on, he started toward the mess hall.
There is something exhilarating about a confrontation. Usually, closure to a volatile situation is achieved. A problem or point of contention is addressed head on and not left to fester, to gnaw at one’s gut, to reappear magnified and with increased intensity later. Adrenaline is dissipated. A stand is taken. In the majority of situations, confrontation is eminently preferable to avoidance.
The mess hall was at capacity for the noon meal as the Lieutenant, followed closely by the CQ and CQ runner, entered through the door at one end of the building. A short visual scan located Folson at a table to the Lieutenant’s right. From his angle of approach, the table was between the Lieutenant and a point where two walls of the mess hall converged in a corner. Folson looked up from his meal and saw the Lieutenant walking quickly toward him; he sat up in his chair. The Lieutenant, holding his hand with the .45 down and against his leg, took note that Folson’s legs were well back from the center of the table and, at a distance of less than six feet, raised the pistol. The arm came up in a smooth arc, the thumb disengaging the safety and the index finger taking up the slack in the trigger. When the Lieutenant’s arm and the pistol had formed a straight line to Folson’s lunch tray, there was a split second delay as the upward swing of the arm stopped and the index finger brought terminal pressure to bear on the trigger – the pistol fired. The combination of the 230 grain bullet and muzzle blast cleared the meal from the trainee’s table, smashing the lunch plate and plastic drinking glass and littering the mess hall floor with uneaten food and distorted utensils. Later it would be found that the bullet had ricocheted from the tray without penetrating it, had been funneled into the corner by the converging mess hall walls and had fallen to the floor. At the shot there had been a single scream from a female civilian worker in the kitchen, followed by the silence of mass shock. The Lieutenant remembered hearing the singular sound of the spent shell casing rolling across the floor.
No one spoke during the walk back from the mess hall. As they reached the Orderly Room door, the CQ runner looked at the Lieutenant and said,
“There will be Hell to pay, sir.”
The Lieutenant stopped and looked back up the hill in the direction of the mess hall. All was quiet, there was no one in sight.
“Yeah.”
He turned and walked through the door.
The lamp on the bedside table cast a dim circle of light, illuminating a small area half the size of the tabletop. The Lieutenant dropped the thick packet of papers he had been reading and muttered,
“God. All they’re concerned about is that I discharged a weapon. No one gives a damn why or what led up to it.”
A gentle rustling in the bed beside him gave quiet evidence of the softness lying there.
“Don’t worry yourself sick about it.”
The voice was gentle and caressing in its femininity.
“There’s nothing you can do now.”
She worked at headquarters and, from the outset, they both had an unspoken understanding that their relationship was not, could not, be permanent. She saved him from the moronic head games of the Columbus bar scene and from the dangers of the prostitutes on Victory Drive. She provided the warmth and intimate moments so necessary for human existence yet unerringly absent in the world of whores and one night stands. He returned to her the same and removed her from a nightlife far more dangerous to an unattached woman than to a man. Above all, he provided her with the discretion necessary in a relationship that was both welcomed and lamented for its transience.
On occasion, she provided him with information.
The packet addressed to the Commanding General now lay on the bedside table. The disposition form that served as a cover stated simply,
FORWARDED TO YOUR OFFICE FOR ACTION UNDER ARTICLE 15, UCMJ.
It was signed by the Lieutenant’s Brigade Commander.
The investigation had been sharply focused. The Lieutenant had been placed on administrative leave and everyone who had been a part of or who had witnessed the incident had been interviewed. Drill Sergeants who had, of their own volition, gone to Battalion Headquarters to speak to the Battalion Commander on behalf of the Lieutenant had been turned away. Attempts by the Drill Sergeants to affirm the lack of discipline in the unit were rebuffed. Surprisingly, the one person in the report of the investigation who had spoken in defense of the Lieutenant’s actions was Folson himself.
The Lieutenant turned off the lamp and pulled the covers across his midsection. A warm, soft hand reached for him and rested on his chest. Again the voice was gentle, almost sorrowful, in its feeling and quiet understanding.
“They’re going to hang you for this.”
The statement was figurative but, in the Lieutenant’s mind, it may as well have been literal. He turned his head and looked out the window into the cloudless Georgia sky.
Whispers in the dark carry the truths of nations.
The Infantry Bar was Fort Benning’s “roadhouse”. Situated in a cellar of the Officer’s Club, it was the night-time roost of more fatigue-clad warriors than common sense dictated should be shoehorned into one dimly lit room. Here the smoke, by virtue of volume, had an undulating life of its own. The atmosphere pulsated with the rhythmic throbbing of amplified bass pouring from a jukebox. At each end of the room, a slightly elevated stage served as a display case for a dancer in a bikini.
Standing at the bar, the Lieutenant downed the last of his Black Russian when the bartender set a full shot glass before him.
“Thanks, hon, but I didn’t order anything.”
The bartender shrugged and nodded over her shoulder toward the far end of the bar. There a Major that the Lieutenant didn’t recognize raised his own drink and smiled. The Lieutenant breathed a long sigh. It had been a while since a stranger had bought him a drink and he’d hoped that period was over. In the camaraderie of the Infantry, his liquor had been the treat of someone else once word of the mess hall incident had become common knowledge. The Commanding General had been inexplicably lenient. During the investigation, the Lieutenant had attempted to relate his views on the status of discipline in his unit. The Commanding General had read the report, the Company Commander’s rebuttals, and had discussed both with the Lieutenant. Of all the personnel involved in the investigation, both in an official and an unofficial capacity, only the Commanding General had asked the one question that the Lieutenant felt was key to the outcome of the incident: did the trainee subsequently pull his duty?
“Yes, sir, he did.”
Pursuant to the Article 15, the General fined the Lieutenant one hundred dollars and stated that he was viewing their discussion of the incident as a verbal reprimand.
The Lieutenant looked questioningly at the bartender.
“What is it?”, he asked.
She flashed him a knowing smile with teeth that were incongruously bright in the dark atmosphere of the bar.
“Tequila.”
“Aw, shit.”
He hated the stuff. Out of courtesy, he tossed the drink back in a quick motion, grimacing slightly as it burned its way down his throat. Picking up his black baseball cap, he fought through the crowd to the end of the bar. He was wearing the black windbreaker of the Airborne Department cadre over a sweatshirt that had been stenciled with jump wings and had his name tag sewn to the chest. Fatigue trousers and jump boots completed his uniform. He had interviewed for the job of Assistant Branch Chief, Jump Branch, Airborne Department, after his old chain of command had made it clear that he was no longer welcome. That he was offered the job came as no small surprise to him and he was immensely appreciative as well as proud of both his unit and the distinctive uniform.
The Major was a slender man, no taller than the Lieutenant’s height of a few inches short of six feet. Grinning, he held out his hand.
“You’re the guy from that mess hall thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, I am. Thank you for the drink.”
“Hey, my pleasure! Man, I laughed my ass off when I heard about that! You don’t know how many times I felt like doing something just like that.”
The Lieutenant felt a sudden weariness.
“Yes, sir…well…”
“Hey, I was just leaving. If you’re heading out, walk out with me.”
Outside, the Lieutenant took a deep breath, feeling the cool night air flush the smoke from his lungs. In the parking lot the jukebox could no longer be heard and he was acutely aware of the sounds of the night. The normal insect calls and noises were noticeably absent. The Major was speaking.
“…and the rest of the guys in the unit agreed. There’s been a hell of a lot of times we’ve all felt like doing something like that.”
The Lieutenant started to speak, then hesitated. He turned to face the Major. It had begun to rain.
“Sir, I really appreciate the drink. I know what you’re trying to say.”
Once again, the Lieutenant paused.
“The truth is, sir, I have no career left. I’ve been on active duty for a little over two years now and Branch has told me that because I have a Commanding General’s Article 15 on my record, I’ll never be promoted to field grade. Captain, maybe, Major never.”
He spoke louder now, his voice competing with fingers of rain drumming on the brims of both men’s caps.
“I took a stand where maybe it would have been better to walk away. I don’t know. What I do know is I will never know what might have been. I will never stand where you stand now. I will never be that small combat unit leader that I wanted to be and that I trained for. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, just to understand that there are two very distinct views of this situation. And, frankly, my view of it stinks.”
The Major stared at him, his eyes hidden in the street lamp shadow beneath the brim of his cap. Suddenly, he smiled and thrust out his hand. He shouted to be heard above the downpour that had developed.
“Damn, Lieutenant, you take care of yourself!”
Grinning, the Lieutenant shook hands and shouted back,
“You too, sir! And thanks again for the drink!”
Whirling, the Major broke into a dead run across the parking lot. The Lieutenant stood there for a moment, then slowly dropped his hand from the unacknowledged salute. Still grinning, he remembered that the new Airborne class would make its first jump tomorrow. It would feel good to be under a parachute canopy again. Turning, he walked into the wet night, hoping he could remember where he’d parked his car.
~ Dempsey 🌵
Chalk Dust 
Very well written!
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Thank you.
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