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Chapter
1
Alan Dawson's first attempt to acquire a college education
was unsuccessful. Enrolled in a small liberal arts college in
central Pennsylvania, aided by an athletic scholarship, he
attended classes and went to fraternity rush parties. His
enthusiastic participation in the latter brought him to the
attention of the administration and he was asked to leave after
six weeks.
Returning to the modest home just outside Philadelphia
where he had been born two years after World War 2, Dawson's
strict Protestant parents offered constant reminders of the
embarrassment his failure had caused them.
He had been raised to be the first in the family to
graduate from college. A new plan was devised. He would live at
home and commute to a large university in the city. He filed the
application and was accepted to begin the next semester.
Life at home was not going well. So in early December,
after the latest family episode of 'As long as you stay in
my house you live by my rules,' Dawson parked his mother's car by the curb in a neighboring
town and stared through the windows of the Army recruiting
station. He entered and was immediately surrounded by posters and
pamphlets featuring stern looking men wearing green berets. A
competent sergeant explained that with a two year enlistment he
would be assigned where the army needed him. If he enlisted for
three years he would be guaranteed the school of his choice.
Dawson interpreted that to mean a two year enlistment would
send him to Vietnam with the infantry. So, he chose three years.
He took a few tests, carefully marking "Strongly
Disagree" on any questions about enjoying camping or hiking.
Afterward he was informed that his scores qualified him to choose
from a huge list of schools. With the sergeant's help he choose
the Intelligence Analyst school at Ft. Holabird, MD. After a trip
downtown for a physical he signed the enlistment agreement.
A couple of days before Christmas his father said he was
writing the check for the college tuition. The announcement that
Alan had joined the army was met with a reaction similar to the
news of the Kennedy assassination. He worked as a shipping clerk
in a local factory while he waited for his enlistment date. On
March 6, 1966 Alan Dawson was sworn in as a $78 a month Private
E-1 in the United States Army. He boarded a troop train bound for
Ft. Jackson, South Carolina. The train had a three hour layover in
Washington, DC. Everybody headed to local bars and got drunk. The
first day of army life was just like college.
The train arrived at the Ft. Jackson reception station.
There the new recruits were given a partial pay and had their hair
cut off. As uniforms were issued the troops walked under a sign
stating "You are Now the Best Equipped Fighting Man in the
World." After
hanging around for a couple of days they loaded on to a bus for a
trip to Ft. Gordon, GA and basic training.
Basic training was a lot of running and a lot of hollering.
Pvt. Dawson made his first and only trip to the orderly room on
the second day. He had not elected to have a saving's bond
automatically deducted from his pay. A sergeant explained that
with 100% participation in the program the commanding officer got
to fly a small minuteman flag below the American flag in front of
the building. This was apparently very important to the captain.
He corrected his error and returned to running and hollering. The
most anticipated event of basic training occurred in the beginning
of week seven. The infiltration
course. Trainees got to crawl under barbed wire while
machine guns fired real bullets over their heads and pyrotechnics
blew dirt in their faces. The troops were very excited.
Unfortunately, Dawson was on light duty with an upper respiratory
infection and was unable to attend. Two days before they graduated
from basic the trainees cleaned and turned in their weapons. He
believed he had carried a rifle for the last time.
The Army Intelligence School at Ft. Holabird was located
between a yeast factory and a General Motors B body plant in
southeast Baltimore. In the summer of 1966 the soldiers endured
sweltering nights on sweat soaked sheets and the stench of yeast.
During the day they attended Intelligence Analyst classes in air
conditioned buildings. The students favorite classes, the DAME
course, Defense Against Methods of Entry, and the DASE course,
Defense Against Sound Equipment actually taught them how to break
into buildings and how to bug rooms. The aerial photography
classes consisted of looking at photos through a device called a
stereoscope. It was supposed to add depth to the photos. Dawson
could never make it work because he wore glasses. After class
students would go have a drink at the local bar on Dundalk Avenue
or on special occasions they would take a bus to East Baltimore
Street and visit the strip clubs. On $78 a month Dawson was always
broke so he spent most of his off time playing softball or working
out at the post gym.
Midway through the course, there was a serious traffic
accident and a call went out for blood donors. Dawson was a match
so he volunteered. While he was recovering in the dispensary he
saw a notice on the bulletin board. It detailed how the
requirements for Officer's Candidate School had been changed.
Enlisted personnel could now attend OCS without two years
of college if they met certain other requirements. He pulled the
paper down and stuck it in his pocket. The next day, after reading
the notice several times, he left class early and went to the
orderly room.
"First sergeant, I'd like to apply for OCS."
"You're going to have to see the CO about that,"
the first sergeant replied.
"When can I see him?"
"Maybe right now. Let me check." Returning in a few
seconds he said "Go ahead in."
Dawson entered and saluted the captain.
"So, why do you want to go to OCS?"
"Because I can't live on eighty bucks a month, sir," he
replied.
"That's probably the least bullshit answer I've ever
heard," the captain belly laughed. "I'll have the first
sergeant give you the paper work and you can use one of the
typewriters in the office to complete them when you're off
duty." Dawson
was amazed with how easy that was. Over the next 3 days he hunted
and pecked his way through the application. One section raised his
concern. List three branches of the Army you are applying for. You
must include one combat arm. After some thought he entered
Intelligence, Signal and Armor as the combat arm. He figured Armor
would have the least possibility of ending up in the jungles of
Vietnam. He turned in the paperwork and returned to classes,
softball and the gym.
A week later the first sergeant called him to the orderly
room. He was directed to be interviewed by an OCS review board. He
entered the room and stood at attention before a four officer
panel. A lieutenant colonel, a major and two captains. They were
very intimidating. He was questioned about his background,
patriotism and how as a military officer he would motivate his
subordinates. To the latter he found himself repeating words his
high school football coach had used in pre-game pep talks.
Abruptly he was dismissed. As he left the room he lingered to
listen through the door.
"That kid's not officer material."
"That's not our job. Our job is only to determine if
they're qualified. It's
the school's job to wash them out," an older voice replied.
Ten days before completing the Intelligence Analyst course
Dawson was back in the captain's office.
"Congratulations private. You have been accepted to Officer's
Candidate School," the
captain said handing him a small stack of papers. The sense of
accomplishment he felt was quickly extinguished as he read the
words: Infantry Officer Candidate School, Ft, Benning, Georgia.
"Sir, I think there is a mistake," Dawson said,
extending the papers back to the captain. "This says Infantry
OCS." The captain took a look at the papers, thought for a
few seconds and replied.
"Intelligence branch is too small to have it's own OCS.
Our officers go through Infantry OCS and then on to Intelligence
Officers Basic. Don't worry the Army is not hard up enough to need
infantry officers who wear glasses." The captain answered
with authority. The answer made sense.
And since Dawson wanted to believe it, he accepted it.
In
a few weeks he was settled into the Infantry OCS barracks at Ft,
Benning, Ga. In a
repeat of basic training he was once again called to the company
commanders office. This time he had failed to volunteer for the
Airborne, Rangers, and Special Forces. And this time it was about
some little green flag for 100% participation. The captain's
fatigues displayed the Combat Infantryman's Badge, jump wings and
a 173rd Airborne combat patch. He wasn't fooling around, and made
it clear that Dawson would either volunteer right now or he would
be sent to the first infantry unit leaving for Vietnam. He also
pointed out that no one who wore glasses was qualified to serve in
these elite fighting forces. Pvt. Dawson, now Officer's Candidate
E-5 Dawson signed the paper.
If there was such a thing as a well oiled-machine in the U.
S. Army, Infantry OCS was it. Watching the organized formations of
double timing candidates each carrying an infantry blue clipboard
with a "Win in Vietnam' sticker on the back, converge on
Infantry Hall each morning was quite impressive. The constant
harassment by TAC officers offset by highly professional classroom
and field training created an atmosphere of organized chaos. Each
day candidates were given more tasks than they could possibly
accomplish. They had to prioritize them and the TAC officers
always made sure that their decisions were wrong. As they got
deeper into the training they were becoming more efficient. Midway
through the twenty four week course most of the candidates who
weren't going to make it were gone. For those that remained, spit
shining floors, always running when out doors, bellowing TAC
officers and punishment pushups for the most minor infraction had
become an easily endured norm.
Surprising himself, Dawson was fitting in quite well. His
high school athleticism allowed him to easily overcome the
grinding physical requirements that hampered many of his peers and
he found the classes both interesting and informing. Keeping a low
profile he had managed to evade the wrath of most of the TAC
officers. Most, but not all. There was one, a short, round face
TAC officer that seemed to take a particular pleasure harassing
Dawson. His name tag read OBERLONG. 2nd Lt. Oberlong. Dawson was
careful to avoid him. Returning
from class one evening Dawson found his shined floor scrapped up.
His mattress overturned and his perfectly folded socks and
underwear dumped out of the chest onto the floor. This had
happened to other candidates.
So, it wasn't unheard of. But it wasn't the norm either.
Dawson spent a couple of hours after lights out with a flashlight
putting his room back in order. Returning from PT the next morning
Dawson heard a voice behind him.
"Tired this morning, candidate." It was Oberlong.
Dawson turned and came to attention.
"No Sir."
"I heard you were up after curfew last night," Oberlong
questioned. Dawson
did not reply.
"Were you up after curfew last night?" Oberlong
demanded.
"Yes Sir."
"Get down to my level."
Dawson bent his knees till his face was directly in front
of the tac officer's. "Do you think you're better than me
candidate?"
"No, Sir," Dawson lied. Oberlong was screaming
now. His face was red. As
he yelled, his spit was hitting Dawson in the face. Two TAC
officers stood a dozen feet away.
"Frank's getting carried away," said the first.
"If he's not careful that kid's going to kill him,"
replied the other.
"I'd pay to see that." They laughed. Together
they approached the still raging Lt. Oberlong. "We gotta go
Frank," one said placing his hand on Oberlong's shoulder.
Dawson was angry. A quiet, seething anger.
Things quickly got back to normal. Dawson avoided Lt.
Oberlong and it seemed like Oberlong was avoiding him. Weeks
passed. The company was out on a range for a day long class titled
"The Infantry Platoon in the Assault." The instructor
was explaining that in Vietnam, when you are ambushed, you are in
the kill zone and you must immediately assault into that ambush.
This had been a common teaching point in many of the tactics
courses. During a break Dawson asked the instructor why it was
always assumed that you would walk into an ambush? Why didn't they
have courses on how not to walk into an ambush?
"That's a good question," the instructor replied.
"Maybe after you get back from Vietnam you can teach that
course." Dawson wondered why he bothered to ask. What did he
care about infantry tactics since he would be returning to the
Intelligence Branch?
On the day before graduation the candidates gathered around
the steps to the mess hall in civilian clothes. Technically they
had been discharged the day before from their enlisted service and
tomorrow they would reenter the army as commissioned officers. It
was an excited group. Within the hour they would receive orders
for their first duty assignment. Dawson was thinking about
returning to Ft. Holabird. Not on sweaty sheets and $78 a month.
This time he would be living in the air condition bachelor
officer's quarters, simply called the BOQ, with $300 a month to spend. It had been worth the hard six
months. Many of his classmates, some of them good friends now,
were hoping to be sent on a bus ride across Ft. Benning to the
high towers for paratrooper training or the demanding ranger
school. Others with higher ambitions wanted the ultimate prize.
Special Forces, the Green Berets.
The company commander appeared on the steps. He
congratulated the troops on their successful completion of OCS and
urged them to "Give 'em hell in Vietnam." Then he
proudly announced that he had received orders to the 101st
Airborne Division, the famed Screaming Eagles, and was returning
to the fight in Vietnam. The troops cheered. He turned it over to
the first sergeant, who jokingly reminded the men that tomorrow
was his pay day. It is a tradition that each newly commissioned
officer rewards the first sergeant with a silver dollar as he
gives them their first salute. Then the company clerk began to
read the orders and pass out the paperwork. Most of the orders
were to basic training posts. Ft. Dix, Fort Polk, Ft. Gordon. Many
of he gung-ho soon to be 2nd Lieutenants were openly disappointed.
It was going very slowly and got to be boring. Dawson was annoyed
that the orders weren't coming in alphabetical order and almost
missed his.
"Dawson, Alan. Airborne School, Ft, Benning, GA
en route to the Special Forces Officer Course, Ft. Bragg,
North Carolina." Finally some one had gotten decent orders.
His classmates applauded and patted him on the back. Dawson
removed his glasses. Looking at them, he remembered the captain's
words,
"No one who wears glasses is qualified to serve in these
elite fighting units." He shook his head.
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