A memoir of a Vietnam veteran
The class of TOBC-9-67 (pronounced Toe Back) gathered one-by-one throughout the weekend. We were startled to discover our being assigned to World War I barracks. Where were the modern, slick, BOQs with nearby swimming pools and bars adorned by a chorus of voluptuous maids? At least the insides of the barracks had been carved into individual cells by plywood partitions. My cubicle even had an interior wall and a door which I could presumably lock. Then there was the broad expanse of parade grounds that surrounded our new home. It wasn’t there by accident. Someone intended us to spend a good deal of time doing close order drill and ceremony. We accepted our situation with stoic good humor.
“Jesus Christ! You call this a God Damn BOQ! I’ve seen stables with better rooms.”
“Shit, those cock suckers are taking my housing allowance for this? What the fuck is going on here?”
“Hey, these assholes can’t make us live like this can they? It says in the regs that every officer is entitled to 750 square feet, no fucking way this is 750 square feet.”
“OK, who’s going to be the first to call his congressman and get us out of these shit holes?”
On Sunday morning, the day before we were actually supposed to begin duty, we were summoned together to meet the Director of Instruction (DOI), a soft-spoken Lieutenant Colonel. “I want to welcome you to Fort Eustis and to the Army. I apologize for the living quarters, but we’re overcrowded here. The post is just about double the normal capacity; in fact you’d have to go back to 1945 to find a time when we were so stretched out.”
He turned the show over to his cadre. Captain Lacy Smith assured us that, “By God, every one of you Swinging Richards will become a soldier and you’ll damn well learn to love it!” Then came Second Lieutenant John Swann, a lean, infantry hard ass who promised to make our lives as miserable as was humanly possible.
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