Chapter 2
December 8, 1951
USMC Camp Pendleton, California
Jackson entered their house with a copy of his enlistment papers. He had just left the US Army recruiter’s office in Oceanside. Since he was only seventeen, he hoped his mother would sign the permission form. But why wouldn’t she? He’d worked his butt off to graduate a year early from high school for this purpose. She knew his plans, his dreams of going to West Point. This was the first stepping stone, enlisting during a time of war.
“Mom, I’m home,” Jackson yelled in the entry hall.
“I’m in the kitchen, honey,” his mother called.
Jackson went into the kitchen and watched his mother at the stove. He sniffed the air. She was cooking one of his favorite meals, pot roast with carrots, onions, and potatoes with green beans and corn. On the table, three place settings instead of two. Him, his mother…and maybe his older brother, Jim, in his first year at the Naval Academy.
“When’s Jim getting home for winter break?”
His mother checked her watch. “Ten minutes. He called this morning to say his train would be late.”
“Yeah, heard on the radio there were snowstorms in Maryland.”
“Now…” His mother turned around. “Where have you been?”
Jackson held out the permission form. “Recruiter’s office. Will you sign this for me, please?”
“Hmmm…so you went without me.”
“Yes, ma’am. I wanted to get it done.” He didn’t want his mother going with him. No way did he want the recruiter thinking he was a mama’s boy.
Mom took the paper and looked at it. Her expression didn’t change. She wasn’t happy with him. “So you chose infantry as a primary MOS? With the option to attend Airborne School?”
“Yes, I want to jump out of planes.”
She tapped her finger on her lips. “Like your dad. James loves it too. I don’t know, JJ, you just turned seventeen yesterday. Don’t you want to wait and enjoy yourself for a few months? Be home for Christmas with your brother. You’ve done nothing but study and train at the gym.”
Jackson wasn’t sure she would sign it. “Mom…”
His mother’s expression didn’t change then she smiled. “Hand me a pen.”
“Thanks.” Jackson rummaged around in the kitchen junk drawer until he found a pen and gave it to her.
“When would you have to report for basic training?”
“The train leaves for Fort Benning on Tuesday…December 12th. I start basic on the 18th.”
Before his mother could respond, someone knocked on the door.
“Wonder who that could be?” she said.
Jackson smiled. “Sergeant First Class Mason, my recruiter. I told him to give me thirty minutes then come by the house to get the form. That way, I can be on that train next week.”
“Jackson Joseph MacKenzie, you are a brat…and I love you.”
Jackson came to attention, chin tucked, back straight, hand cupped on the seams of his jeans. “Yes, ma’am.”
“JJ…before you answer the door, I want you to think about something. With your dad in Korea, Jim at Annapolis, and you at basic, what would you think of me…seeing if the Army needs one more nurse? I can’t sit in this house alone.”
“Mom, that’s up to you.” Jackson hoped she wouldn’t, but he understood why. Her father rode in the 7th Calvary in Indian Territory, Cuba, and the Philippines, and she adored him. Serving was in her blood.
December 18, 1951
Fort Benning, Georgia
Jackson stood in line at the barbershop with his gear and uniforms stuffed haphazardly in his duffle bag. Courtesy of his first trip to the quartermaster. His first few hours as a private had gone as expected. Lots of yelling, pushups, and a perpetual look of confusion on every recruit’s face.
“Next,” yelled the barber.
Jackson went in and sat in the chair. His hair was already in a Marine regulation high and tight like his father wore.
The barber buzzed the clippers, and what hair Jackson had fell to the floor.
“Next.”
Jackson stood, grabbed his duffle bag, and joined the freshly shorn recruits in the hall.
The tedious intake process with its catalog of medical tests and paperwork, followed by a standing-room-only bus ride, pushed his patience to the limit. He hated being stuffed next to sweaty, stinky young men who looked like deer in headlights. They reminded him of cattle on their way to slaughter.
“You there,” someone called.
Jackson looked around as he got off the bus. “Yes.”
A young man in civilian clothing came up to him. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“I’m doing what wrong?” Jackson asked. Who is this jerk?
“Standing at attention. You do it like this.” The guy placed his hands next to his pockets. Not at all a correct form of attention. The knucklehead didn’t have his feet at a forty-five-degree angle and his back was arched, not straight. Elbows bent. His shoulders were drooped. Not at all squared and his chin wasn’t tucked in.
Who does he think he is? Jackson stared at the guy. He acts like he already has three stripes. Moron. Before he could correct him, the assistant drill sergeant, Sergeant McQueen, approached them. Jackson let the sergeant take care of the problem. You never want to gain the attention of anyone, but especially the drill sergeants on the first day.
“Private Wood!” Sergeant McQueen screamed.
Jackson knew that meant, You’re mine now, maggot!
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
“If you have so much time on your hands, how about you give us a show? Sing the Star-Spangled Banner! By yourself.” Sergeant McQueen clenched his fists. His knuckles turned white. Sweat ran from under his garrison cap. His flashing eyes narrowed into crinkled dark slits.
“Huh?”
“Are you deaf? Do you need another medical exam for your hearing?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t call me, sir, dipshit. I work for a living. And my parents aren’t related,” barked Sergeant McQueen. “Now sing!”
Wood stood straight and sang the Star-Spangled Banner in an off-key southern nasal twang.
Jackson withheld his laughter. The show-off got his just desserts.
A short time later, one hundred and fifty recruits tried to form straight lines, in alphabetical order, in under three minutes. Which equated to forty-five seconds in drill instructor time.
Jackson bit down on his impatience. He couldn’t believe these men didn’t know their lefts from their rights. Most of them tripped and fell over, dusting themselves off while the drill sergeants screamed at them to get moving. With the temperature hovering in the mid-fifties, cold sweat dripped down the back of his coat collar as he waited for the men to figure it out. His last name put him in the middle of the platoon.
Almost everyone failed the next test. Learning the names of total strangers, the men of his platoon. Knowing the drill, he rattled off the names of those around him correctly. Since this was a test that the recruits were meant to fail, he did pushups like the rest of 1st Platoon, Baker Company, 2nd Battalion, 19th Infantry Regiment.
The drill sergeants led them to the barracks. The wooden, two-story white building was old and reeked of mold. At the entrance, a rifle rack to lock up their M1 Garand .30-06 rifles when they were issued. Jackson thought that the air-cooled, gas-operated, clip-fed, semi-automatic, shoulder-fired weapon was cool. General George Patton had called it “the greatest battle implement ever devised.”
His dad had taken him to the range at Pendleton many times and let him shoot one. The eight-round clip made a pinging sound when it ejected. He got to shoot the BAR-Browning Automatic Rifle once. Much too heavy. He’d rather stay with the M1 rifle or a carbine.
Both sides of the bay contained two bunks stacked on each other. Everyone went to their assigned bunk then placed their gear in their green wooden footlocker at the end. Each item had its place, rolled-up socks facing in the proper direction, underwear, handkerchiefs folded the Army way, comb, and razor. Behind each cot was a rack to hang clothing. The left sleeve always facing out. Above the rack, a shelf for a helmet. Throughout the room, nailed to the wooden support posts, two-pound red coffee cans half-filled with water. These were the “butt cans” for the smokers. But he didn’t smoke, nor did he intend to start. Cigarette smoke always gave him a headache. Jackson was grateful he got the bottom bunk. He could scramble out of it faster. Ready for whatever the drill sergeants threw at him. From his father’s stories, that was a given.
At 2000 hours, the senior drill sergeant, Sergeant First Class Nelson, gave them an hour of free time.
Jackson used it to get to know the men around him. “Hi, I’m Jackson MacKenzie.” He held out his hand to the man on the bunk above him.
“Dale Webber,” the young man, not any older than him, replied as he shook his hand. “Where are you from?”
“San Diego. You?”
“Fresno.”
“So we’re both from California,” Jackson said.
“Looks that way. I guess we’re battle buddies.”
“Yeah, we go everywhere together.” If one of us gets caught alone, we’re both in big trouble.
They talked about a few things: school, girls, sports, movies. When Dale spoke about his parents, Jackson let him talk. He didn’t want to give out any information about his mom or dad. Bringing up his father was a Marine colonel would only start more questions. Answers he didn’t want to give. That would ultimately lead to someone figuring out he was the son of a Medal of Honor recipient, and he wanted to avoid that kind of scrutiny. He wanted to make it on his own, the only way he could do that: stay invisible. A fly on the wall absorbing information. That meant not making waves. He had to get along with everyone. You don’t make friends by ordering your fellow recruits around or seeming too passive. The one thing he had to do was come off as a team player and let people like him.
Lights out—2100 hours. Jackson lay on his bunk, worn-out from the long day that started at 0500. At least he didn’t draw fire watch on his first night. He stared at the bottom of the bunk above him. Occasional sobs drifted across the long expanse of the bay. He missed his mom and was a little homesick. Being a Marine brat, he understood one thing after going through his father’s absence during WWII. After the oath, now he belonged to Uncle Sam.
Ninety-nine percent of surviving basic training was mental toughness. Take what the drill sergeants dished out and let it roll off your back. The only person who could defeat you was you. The other one percent, the drill sergeants. Their job, to break you down mentally and physically, then rebuild you into a living, breathing weapon, a United States Army soldier. Or, if you couldn’t adapt to military life, they sent you packing with an Entry Level Separation.
March 19, 1952
Graduation Day – Fort Benning, GA
Four months of sweating, sleeplessness, long days, and even longer nights were over. His time in recruit hell had finally come to an end. Jackson was tired of the drill sergeant shenanigans, banging trashcan lids for wake-up and thousands of pushups.
Basic Training and Infantry School weren’t hard, just hours of going through what his father already taught him. Shooting, combat tactics, leadership, close order drill, discipline, and military life. Learning how to kill and avoid being killed the Army way. Throwing grenades and sticking the bayonet on your M1 rifle into a cloth figure stuffed with straw on a swinging arm. He hated the crap jobs, assigned by the drill sergeants to make your life a never-ending purgatory. Kitchen police duty, peeling hundreds of potatoes, and scrubbing oversized pots and pans all weekend long.
Jackson stood at attention on the parade grounds wearing his service dress uniform with a light blue infantry cord hung over the right shoulder of his olive drab Ike jacket. He was proud to be a United States Army soldier. As an infantryman, he had entered a brotherhood within a brotherhood.
Only one thing marred the day. No one was there to watch him graduate. His father and mother were in Korea. So were Uncle Manny and Uncle Jason. Aunt Sara had to take care of the ranch. Aunt Janet was in charge of the Marine Corps Auxiliary at Pendleton. His older brother wanted to be at Jackson’s graduation, but his brigade commander at the Naval Academy denied the request.
After he left for basic training, his mother reapplied to the Army, much to his chagrin. In need of surgical nurses, they accepted, promoted her, and shipped her off to war. Now she was the head nurse of the 8076th MASH unit.
Hundreds of spectators looked on. American and US Army flags flapped in the breeze. The band played John Philip Sousa marches as the two graduating companies marched in the pass in review.
Able and Baker companies lined up in front of the reviewing stand. The training cadre’s commanding officer, Colonel Harlow, went down the steps and stood in front of them.
“Private MacKenzie, front and center,” Colonel Harlow yelled.
Jackson stepped forward, squared his corner, went to the end of the formation, turned, and marched to the colonel. “Private MacKenzie reporting as ordered, sir!”
“Private MacKenzie, for your exemplary attitude and aptitude during training, you are being awarded Distinguished Honor Graduate for this training cycle. Congratulations, Private First Class MacKenzie.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jackson accepted the PFC stripes and certificate in a black-bound case.
“Dismissed, PFC MacKenzie.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson returned to his platoon with the stripes and certificate case clutched in his hand.
At the end of the ceremony, when dismissed by their company commander, the men rushed to the stands to meet their loved ones. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, and children.
Jackson kept walking toward the barracks to sew on his chevron and pack everything in his duffle bag. Tomorrow he reported to his next assignment.
April 9, 1952
Airborne School Graduation - Fort Benning, GA
Jackson loved Airborne School. He didn’t want it to end. Three weeks wasn’t long enough. The adrenaline rush of freefall made him feel alive. One with his surroundings. Every time he leapt from a plane, he tingled as if on fire. The jerk of the risers and the floating made him feel on top of the world. Superman. Bulletproof. Unstoppable. Immortal.
Jackson stood with his company on the parade grounds. He wanted to get dismissed, go pack his gear, and use his pass for an evening on the town.
Colonel Thompson descended the steps and stood in front of them. “Private First Class MacKenzie, front and center,” he yelled.
Again? Jackson left his spot in the formation and faced the colonel. “Private First Class MacKenzie reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Private First Class MacKenzie, for your exemplary attitude and aptitude during training, you are being awarded Distinguished Honor Graduate for this training cycle. Congratulations, son.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jackson accepted the certificate in a black-bound case.
“Dismissed, Private First Class MacKenzie.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson returned his position.
“You are dismissed and good luck,” Colonel Thompson yelled.
Hats flew in the air as applause came from the audience.
April 10, 1952
After breakfast at the leisurely hour of 0800, Jackson’s platoon fell into formation in front of the company headquarters. It was zero hour. Their orders had been cut. They would find out their assignments. In a few minutes, everyone would receive his orders. That piece of paper would determine who would stay stateside and live and who would go to Korea and possibly die.
Jackson waited for his name to be called. Since it was alphabetical, it took several minutes.
Their company commander, Captain Hutchinson, pulled a page off his aide’s clipboard. “Private First Class MacKenzie.”
Jackson stepped forward, took the paper from him, and looked at it.
1st Cavalry Division
US Army, Japan/Korea
Replacement – Subject to TDY transfer to other commands within all US Army operations on the Korean peninsula. To remain attached to the 1st Cavalry Division upon completion of assignments in said other commands. Take the next available transport to Japan. Report to headquarters upon arrival.
Jackson was excited and disappointed at the same time. He wanted an assignment with the 101st or the 82nd Airborne and then go to Ranger School. But neither of those units were in Korea. The 1st Cavalry was currently in reserve in Japan after 549 days of continuous fighting and heavy losses. They could return to combat at any time. Now he was a straight leg again. Crap.
The TDY designation made him available to any unit needing a body. There were a lot of them. He might be assigned to the First Team but not likely to remain there for long. If he wound up in Korea, maybe he could finagle a pass to go see his mom and dad. That made this assignment better than Ranger School or Airborne. The Army did him a favor. Maybe. Hooah.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
