Read Online 365 Days by Ronald J. Glasser - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ronald J. Glasser
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procedures, they took up their positions. Macabe was given the first fire mission. With the class spread out behind him, he lay down on the rim of a high hill overlooking the huge, desolate, pock-marked Oklahoma valley baking in the sun. He opened his grids, and laying them down on the dirt next to him, took the horn from the RTO. He was given a convoy in the open.
“59/51 fire mission, over.” He waited, and pressing the button, went on. “Grid 524/313, direction 0300, shell WP, convoy in the open, over.”
“51 fire mission, out.”
“Fire mission—524/313; 0300—out.” And two miles behind him a battery of 105-mm howitzers began traversing toward the target.
“59/51 grid 524/313 clear.”
Less than a minute later, a single shell came whistling in over his head. Despite himself, he was startled by how quickly it was over him and how loud it sounded—like a freight train roaring down through a narrow canyon. A moment later it exploded. A white puff rose out in the valley. Almost right on, he thought; a bit too high, though. Excited, lying sweating on his hill, he pressed the button again, with the guns working unseen miles behind him, doing whatever he asked. He felt somehow as if he were conjuring up the Devil.
“59/51 L50 drop 200, shell H and E. Request battery fire for effect. At my command.” He waited a moment, looked out expertly at the valley, and then, putting down his binoculars, gave his grids one more look and ordered: “Fire!”
Almost instantly a salvo came roaring over. Unconsciously he ducked his head. He had his glasses fixed on the smoke from the first round. Suddenly the ground, a good 500 meters behind the white marking smoke of the first round, heaved open, and the dull thudding of the exploding shells rolled back over him. Confused, Macabe looked quickly from his grids to the smoking valley and back again.
“You killed at least a company of your own men,” the Sergeant said, kneeling down beside him. “They’re dead, Lieutenant.” There was no ridicule in his voice, not even any particular concern. “H and E shells weigh more than WP; that was explained the third day of the class. There is a correction made for it in the FDC. You should have considered this in making such radical corrections.”
Macabe picked up his grids, dusted himself off, and walked slowly off the rim. Three miles away the ground was still smoking. He wasn’t sure whether he felt badly because he’d killed his own men or made a stupid mistake.
The mistake on the hill had sobered him, and he began working harder. There were night fire missions, perimeter fire. It might have been interesting to use what he had learned and go to Nam as an artillery officer, but he had come into the service to acquire more than just a skill. Three days before graduation he requested airborne training, and the day artillery school was over, he went airborne.
Benning was tougher than Sill, and sharper. The men moved more quickly and looked starker. After the cerebral stuff of artillery training, the physicalness of airborne training came as an almost welcome relief. Nothing was sloppy at Benning; even the buildings seemed to have an edge on them. The first day, Macabe stood on the parade grounds and watched the groups of lean, tough troops wheeling past. The next morning he became one of them. During training there was no rank. Everyone on the field—enlisted men and officers—was treated alike. In most cases it was obvious who was who, though the instructors scrupulously ignored the obvious. The harassment never ended. They were pushed all the time.
“Those boots aren’t quite right. Give me twenty.”
“Sorry, but you weren’t down low enough. Let’s try another twenty...ten more.”
“Sorry, mister, but that brass just isn’t right. Go around again.”
“What do you want to be? What do you want to be? Come on...come on...come on...come on. Go, go, go, go.”
He lost ten pounds the first week. They slept
“59/51 fire mission, over.” He waited, and pressing the button, went on. “Grid 524/313, direction 0300, shell WP, convoy in the open, over.”
“51 fire mission, out.”
“Fire mission—524/313; 0300—out.” And two miles behind him a battery of 105-mm howitzers began traversing toward the target.
“59/51 grid 524/313 clear.”
Less than a minute later, a single shell came whistling in over his head. Despite himself, he was startled by how quickly it was over him and how loud it sounded—like a freight train roaring down through a narrow canyon. A moment later it exploded. A white puff rose out in the valley. Almost right on, he thought; a bit too high, though. Excited, lying sweating on his hill, he pressed the button again, with the guns working unseen miles behind him, doing whatever he asked. He felt somehow as if he were conjuring up the Devil.
“59/51 L50 drop 200, shell H and E. Request battery fire for effect. At my command.” He waited a moment, looked out expertly at the valley, and then, putting down his binoculars, gave his grids one more look and ordered: “Fire!”
Almost instantly a salvo came roaring over. Unconsciously he ducked his head. He had his glasses fixed on the smoke from the first round. Suddenly the ground, a good 500 meters behind the white marking smoke of the first round, heaved open, and the dull thudding of the exploding shells rolled back over him. Confused, Macabe looked quickly from his grids to the smoking valley and back again.
“You killed at least a company of your own men,” the Sergeant said, kneeling down beside him. “They’re dead, Lieutenant.” There was no ridicule in his voice, not even any particular concern. “H and E shells weigh more than WP; that was explained the third day of the class. There is a correction made for it in the FDC. You should have considered this in making such radical corrections.”
Macabe picked up his grids, dusted himself off, and walked slowly off the rim. Three miles away the ground was still smoking. He wasn’t sure whether he felt badly because he’d killed his own men or made a stupid mistake.
The mistake on the hill had sobered him, and he began working harder. There were night fire missions, perimeter fire. It might have been interesting to use what he had learned and go to Nam as an artillery officer, but he had come into the service to acquire more than just a skill. Three days before graduation he requested airborne training, and the day artillery school was over, he went airborne.
Benning was tougher than Sill, and sharper. The men moved more quickly and looked starker. After the cerebral stuff of artillery training, the physicalness of airborne training came as an almost welcome relief. Nothing was sloppy at Benning; even the buildings seemed to have an edge on them. The first day, Macabe stood on the parade grounds and watched the groups of lean, tough troops wheeling past. The next morning he became one of them. During training there was no rank. Everyone on the field—enlisted men and officers—was treated alike. In most cases it was obvious who was who, though the instructors scrupulously ignored the obvious. The harassment never ended. They were pushed all the time.
“Those boots aren’t quite right. Give me twenty.”
“Sorry, but you weren’t down low enough. Let’s try another twenty...ten more.”
“Sorry, mister, but that brass just isn’t right. Go around again.”
“What do you want to be? What do you want to be? Come on...come on...come on...come on. Go, go, go, go.”
He lost ten pounds the first week. They slept
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