United States Army Infantry School, Fort Benning Georgia 1967 One, two, three, what are we fighting for
Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn
Next stop is Vietnam
Country Joe McDonald
Our preacher back home once told us a story of a man who was distraught at having no shoes, until he met a man with no feet. Well, Eugene Beck, from Faben, West Virginia personified that story. Eugene, aptly dubbed “Miner” since his first day in uniform was the only person we knew who was truly happy to have been drafted. Had his father allowed it, he would have gladly enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, rather than waiting around for his draft notice, which he received shortly after he turned nineteen.
He was already a four year veteran of the coal mines by then, along with his father and three brothers. It was a family tradition in those parts, one which Miner wasn’t too fond of. With only a ninth grade education, he picked up on the fact that despite having four paychecks coming into the same househhold, they were pretty damn poor. With three older brothers, Miner had never owned a new shirt or pair of pants his entire life. He was thrilled with the new uniforms issued to him by his new uncle Sam.
Something else that did not escape Miner was the mortality rate among the men that worked the mines. If a cave-in didn’t get you, black lung might. Young men in their twenties and thirties had haunted looks of despair beyond their years. Miner was determined for that not to be his fate and felt blessed to be carrying a rifle rather than a pick and shovel. Despite his cheerful disposition, four years underground had given his pale skin an eerie pallor and it seemed to be permantly stained with coal dust. Perhaps it was an illusion projected by his stoic demeanor, but he also seemed to possess wisdom that belied his age and education.
Ant and I managed to remain together after basic training and became fast friends with Miner. Being the biggest guy in the squad, Miner was the designated M-60 gunner, and he handled it with ease.
“I can’t believe I met somebody who talks funnier than you do, Reb” Ant joked.
“Well at least he don’t talk like a dang yankee” I told him.
Ant and I often took friendly jabs at each other, but Miner rarely joined in. He was friendly enough, but was pretty quiet for the most part. But you always had the idea he listened to everything that was said. He never dozed in class and seemed eager to learn. I knew already that was the kind of fellow I wanted to have my
back when things got heavy.
Our monthly payday fell on a Monday, which made for a lot of broke GIs that prior weekend. But thanks to our frugal friend, Miner, we were enjoying a cold pitcher of beer at the bowling alley. We almost had the place to ourselves. After being nearly pennyless his entire life, Miner felt truly blessed to have nearly $200 to himself every month and gently admonished us for having blown our fortune so quickly.
“You have to cut Ant some slack” I told Miner. “You know how it is with those city boys, being used to fine wine and fast women and such.”
“Yeah, yeah Reb, whatever. At least I’m not blowing my dough on chewing tobacco and boiled peanuts” Ant shot back.
Miner seemed mildly amused. Perhaps a little alcohol would loosen his tongue tonight, but he seemed to be drinking cautiously.
“So Miner” I ventured. “You ever kick back and drink a cold beer every now and then back home?”
“Momma and Daddy were strict Babtists.” Miner said, as if that explained everything. Then he continued. “But there was some drinking going on, moonshine mostly . That stuff was poison if you ask me. Got a uncle gone blind but still drinks it some. He’s kinda crazy anyway. I don’t know if the mines made him that way,
or if the moonshine did it. Doesn’t really matter in the long run I reckon. I knew when I was just a youngun that stuff was bad and couldn’t figure out why the grown folks couldn’t see it. Later on I figured out that being older doesn’t always make you smarter.”
“No it doesn’t, Miner.” I agreed.
We all got quiet for a while, each lost in his own thoughts when Ant blurted out “You guys ever think what it’s like to kill a guy? I mean, for real. You know it’s coming. They teach us how to shoot. They teach us how to blow up stuff. But nobody says a damn thing about what happens when you kill another man.”
What a surprise coming from Ant. He was always so nonchalant about everything. He told us he was going to be the Audie Murphy of the Nam. I always figured having Henderson’s insides blew all over him in basic training changed him, but he would never let on if it did.
I had been asking myself the same thing. We all did, I’m sure. We had been told that 90% of our graduating class would be going straight to Vietnam, maybe more. Nearly every night, you could hear a couple of guys discussing this very subject. Occasionally someone could be heard crying during the night. Probably more from a fear of being killed than having to kill. Either way, this was the most serious issue any of us had ever had to deal with in our young lives.
We were riding in a runaway train with Casey Jones asleep at the wheel. All we could do was hope the train came to a peaceful stop before it derailed on a mountain grade. Either way, we were in for a wild ride.