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Stolen US Army Equipment for Sale in Iraq

กุมภาพันธ์ 13, 2010

Private K. Kemper enlisted in the US Army in August 64, in Oakland, California, voluntarily. Not sure if that was the smartest or dumbest thing I ever did in my life.

Employers in San Francisco were not giving a high school grad, aged 17, the time of day with the draft looming over my head. The army's 3 squares and training and medical insurance was better than nothing. In the bay area [SF area, California] at the time, all army interested parties were bussed to the

Oakland recruiting-testing station. Here, with MALES only, were guys of every size and description waiting to go through tests and finally, take the pledge and become privates in the US army! We received some medical shots, disclosed our medical histories, religious preferences, education and employment background. [It was here that I took tests for my "military" specialty and was told I was going to enter personnel specialist school instead of photography school as that was the army's greatest need compared to my skills and to match the timing of my presumed graduation from basic training.] We had guys like me who were just 17.5 [the youngest age for entering the military] up to 32 yr old guys.

The US Army did have “Wacs”, the women's separate army corps, but we did not ask nor learn where they went to get admitted. After being prodded and poked and asked to do the most embarrassing things in a GROUP setting, most of us were finally, when again, dressed, ushered into a room with a proud American flag and an officer and we repeated the pledge and gave our oath to become members of the armed services.

I was then given a military service number which I memorized in 5 minutes, and the sergeant in charge asked
Soon, with our DD214's [packet of data giving the reader our all; medical, educational and more, history] under our arms, we were directed to board a different bus and taken to Ft Ord, about 250 miles south; the Headquarters of the 6th Army.

I think we stopped for lunch on the way down and found out quickly that our Temporary Sgt was about as lost as we were and he earned some of the taunting we gave out. As the bus entered the gate, we were both awed and held apprehension. We were now leaving civilian life and entering a new world. Perhaps we should have been glad that we didn't have female soldiers on board cause our hormones were nowhere in sight.

In just a few minutes, we stopped at the reception center and, tired as dogs and yet, excited and as nervous as a kid on his first date, we endeavored to follow instructions. I think it was about 9 pm at night. [better known as 2100 hours in military parlance]. We were directed into a well sit room and asked to find a desk. In this room, there were no temporary anything. We had corporals and sergeants. Wow! We were handed pencils and forms and, like at our first recruiting office days or weeks earlier, were again asked to fill out things. These included who was responsible for our things or remains if something unfortunate happened to us. And what our skills were. And on and on. As the forms were collected, at least 15% of them had glaring errors which the sergeant demanded be cleared up NOW. When that was all done, we were again, ushered outside into the pitch dark. A Sp4 got us into our first platoon formation and asked us what turned out to be the dumbest question that is ever asked of any soldier “If any of you have contraband, such as weapons, drugs, or pornography, place same into this wastebasket being passed around.” Now none of us were stupid enough to be carrying weapons or drugs but only the richest among us was LUCKY enough to have bought and brought porn with us [it carries a high value among soldiers and is easily tradable for other items or sold]. Naively, several guys dropped their Playboys and Penthouse or other magazines that were brought to the fort. Those sergeants and SP4s must have yelled “What a gold strike” when they returned to their respective barracks with our valuable literature treasure chest! Regardless, we then were directed to march and we stomped in the darkest of nights with some street lighting ] to our barracks, a barracks some ½ mile away. These were two storied buildings built, I think, at the beginning of World War 11. These buildings were all identical and were unvarnished wood with red here and there to point out fire hazard areas and the location of fire extinguishers. We chose our own bunk, and lazily ventured into the latrine; our military toilet. For those of you who have seen the movie, “No Time for Sergeants” a latrine is not just for doing one's business but it is a way of life. Yuck!

A latrine has no stalls, thus, no stall doors. When a guy has to sit and do his business, it is open to the members of that barracks. And there are a dozen of these commodes to use-so, almost never any waiting. And the male latrine has a trough to handle one's other needs. A military expression says it all; each day a soldier “Shits, showers and shaves.” This is also where military insults are offered freely, “Who the f…got me up at this time of the f…morning!? Or “God damn Jose, ya don't gotta stink up the place like you did all last night, etc.” If a friend's “member” was unusually small or large, it was not kept private. One could say that whatever vulgarity was invented in the world, it began its life here. Size and frequency of use of organ, and all manner of other true activities and those hoped for. Not sure how the Wacs handled their “Morning toilet” but if it was anything like the guys animations and protestations, it is a wonder that male and female ever got together!

For those who could sleep, some took a chance to disguise their need to sexually relieve themselves and did so quietly, others “Ragged” on their recruiter and others just bitched. The pleadings for quiet were wasted. About 5:00 am, or 0500 hours, brought our first “Lights on” and our barracks sergeant. There was no problem about anyone being a heavy sleeper; if you were still in your sack after the sergeant went to the end of the 40 ft long room and returned, he would pull or drag you out of bed. If you were a fighting bully when tired, that was just fine cause sergeants ordinarily are some very good fist fighters and they would love to have had an excuse to punch out your lights in short order Other than our belly aching because of the hour, we did not put up any fists in anger. When we were ready, and for this entire week, we were marched to different buildings for skills testing [morse code among other tests] and intelligent tests to see if we had an OCS candidates among our group [Officers Candidate School for those who did not go to a military academy but who still wanted to become officers]. I was not chosen to try out -so that meant my scores for the OCS program were just average. We took English and other tests to see how we took directions and obtained our clothes and our hair cuts and more medical shots. None of us laughed at our new appearance and luckily, none of us looked unnecessarily horrible in our fatigues. By the end of this first week, we were boarding our first duce and a ½ [the standard troop carrying truck, that was 2 and ½ tons in operating size; seen in a myriad of movies such as First Blood with Sly Stone] and carried to basic training. This for me was at HHC, 3 3, or, headquarters and headquarters company, 3rd battalion, 3rd training brigade, also known as “Up on the hill.” AS a vehicle approaches this part of Ft Ord, one sees a line of 3 story buildings, 3 deep, climbing up the hill perhaps 2 miles in height. Wow! Since this bldg housed an entire company, our barracks, now in this brick building,

was located on the top floor on the right. I grabbed an upper bunk and began removing my DUFFEL bag full of army stuff and placing it into either my wall or foot locker. I never did ask why the wall lockers were made of metal and the foot ones, wood. So far, I was with the same guys I had enlisted with in San Francisco and Oakland. Soon, we met our platoon Sergeant and his assistant, as he talked to us while he stood in “God's country.” GC was the area running the length of the room, about 8 feet wide. My bunk was just inside the door and to the right. It was almost funny watching guys visiting each other across GC and having to always walk around. Accidentally walking on GC means push-ups if caught. Basic training was eight weeks in duration. We were physically led 20% of the time by our sergeant and the rest of the time by temporarily sergeants. We guessed this was because our sergeant and his associate sergeant were very sharp and were giving guidance to the pentagon for the slow build up of advisors in Vietnam. Nothing else made sense to us and we never asked. In basic training, some things were constant; we had to climb some monkey bars on the way to mess hall. If you dropped, you started over. We were tested on our chain of command [who were our bosses in-between our platoon sergeant and the president of the US], what were our general orders [mainly used when pulling guard duty] and general military knowledge such as the specifications of our rifles, the M14, and more. We marched everywhere as I remember, from 1 to 25miles; all staying on Fort Ord's grounds. We learned hand to hand combat [one day a guy, as we were learning how to do somersaults, landed on my face and the skin was almost totally removed and took 1 mo to grow back], bayonet practice, map reading, crawling under machine gun fire, grenade tossing, rifle range and more. As my family and friends later learned, another thing that sort of sticks with a soldier is his habit of eating quickly. At least with me-we had a company rule laid on us; you have 5 min to eat. Doesn't matter when you get your food or how much you have been served…you have a max of 5 minutes to eat. A sergeant will determine when your five is up and he will then say 'time's up, your done!' And we would take our food plates to the KP area [kitchen police-plate holding area] and then quickly leave. One time, my platoon was serving and we had only 2 minutes to eat. I became rather proficient at the use of my rifle. At the training range, one time, as we were all waiting to stop for a steak lunch, my sergeant said “Kemper, are you hungry?” “Yes, sergeant!” was my answer. Our rifles held 20 rounds in our magazines. He said “shoot only for the three hundred yard target. I want all 20 in the bulls-eye… if you want to eat lunch. I took careful aim 20 times and put 20 rounds into the bulls eye. I was motivated. I was hungry.

Other oddities and remembrances include one time we were all sitting down listening to some training and the sergeant felt the need to add emphasis so he said to one of our less “Sharp” soldiers [Wacs never trained with male soldiers in the field] “Do you squat to piss?” “Yes, sergeant.” To that response, we all howled for a minute. We all focused a bit more for the rest of this hour of instruction. Each morning, the company executive officer or commander [we rarely had a CO [company commander], instead, we had a first lieutenant with no other officer to help him] would give to his platoon leaders [sergeants-we never had officers as leaders] instructions as to what training would be conducted, where and what uniform would be worn. Not too hard one would assume. Often it would change 2-3 times in one morning-before we even left the barrack's area. One normal day, we were ready to march to our training area and a call for a change of uniform went out-to which we all charged to our respective floors and rooms to remove or add uniform components; jackets, canteen, etc. One this day, I raced like everyone else. One time for change #2, then another time for change #3, and finally, on change #4, for reasons only my soul understands, I broke down. I sat on the steps and cried. It was too much-too many changes. My platoon sergeant, I think he was also Stockdale, sat next to me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Take it easy Kemper. Breathe easy. [We did not have the term "chill" at that time]. Relax.” After one minute, “Feel better now?” “Yes” I said with some moral strength returning to my body. I never had another occurrence of uniform change frustration. And no one laughed at me for this. After all, we were in BASIC TRAINING to learn different strategies to handle different things.

When it came time to fire on the life firing test, I did only fair as it was very foggy and I could barely see the targets. Another thing that was a bit different from other training battalions was the way we would put our mattresses out the window most every morning so that they aired out. Ft. Ord was undergoing the scare of Spinal Meningitis and its' concern had caused some reduction of how we conducted our training. At the end of our either weeks of training, our graduation ceremony was like that of Stripes and we saw the battalion commander for his speech. When we returner to our barracks, we each had our orders for our A.I.T., Advanced Individual Training. I was to catch a bus to go back down hill and attend Personnel Specialist School while all my other platoon and most in the company went off to other training schools throughout the US; for advanced infantry, for signal, for artillery, medical training for medics, and countless other schools. I was assigned to C-1-4, or, C company, first battalion of the 4th brigade. [Ft Ord, sixth army.] I was to be taught how to handle the soldier's personnel file, the world renowned DD214. I again learned the rules of English, typing [I had typing in the 7th grade so I was up on most everyone in that respect] and how to find the forms needed for everything but medical and pay-those components were filled out at the hospital and pay office, respectively. I believe that my training had me remove those components and send them onwards.

Two great things now were introduced; women and passes! The Wacs were students in most of our personnel specialist schools and we could go to the surrounding cities every weekend if we wanted to and had not had negative things occur to us during the previous week. I earned a pass every week. I would come to regret one pass. During the holiday season, I went with my mom, sister and brother and visited my uncle in Oregon; what an experience to drive back with snow chains as the main driver! A few weeks later, was almost through with my Personnel Specialist training at Ft Ord and was on a normal, weekend pass to Monterey to go to the special services building where soldiers who just want to get away from it all, can almost do so without spending any money. TV, dancing and the like is available. I had been there 2-3 times previously, from memory and it had been just fine. This time, I was ok for the first hour and then, out of nowhere, I began slightly shaking. I am not a drug user or anything and had no explanation for this shaking. I laid down to rest for 1 hour while I waited for the free bus to take us back to the base. Back at our brick barracks, I felt horrible but had not thrown up so felt lucky. I went to the orderly room and got a written note to go on “Sick call.” I walked to the hospital, a walk in the gray matter of life. I should have been driven but I had no excuse to offer to gain a ride. At the hospital, I was sent from one desk to another and felt myself dragging to each site. Finally, after being given a hospital gown, I was directed to a specific room and told to lie down. In 15 minutes, a medic came in with a flash light. Then another one came in. In a minute, I was put on a Gurney and whisked down one long corridor after another and into a room for surgery. I was still very groggy but nothing else. I was very tired and nervous. Finally, I asked the doctor or nurse present, “Do I have Meningitis?” “Yes, I am afraid so” was the answer. I was given a spinal tap that is usually a one shot or one is dead. I moved the first time and the 2nd time, it was successful-what an odd sensation. I also received a urethra tube that hurt like hell and then, I puked white foam. That was scary. I had by now, 1-2 tubes in my arms for something or other. I had been hurt more in earlier scrapes in life so this was not as bad TO ME. And, what do you know but my dad came into the room with a gown and mask. He said “What a way to get good press or get your name in the paper, I forget which.” I was then gurneyed to a room several hallways away and I rolled onto another bed for healing. In this room were 7 other guys. It seems they were also “Mengi” survivors. At Fort Ord, I think 120 men had contracted Mengi and 9 of us had survived it.

I have not been back to the special services building.

I was informed by my training company that had I not been taken ill, I was assigned to Korea. However, I was well enough to return to school [one to two weeks later?] and I graduated from Personnel training school and received orders to go to SETAF, [Southern European Task Force], a division of USAREUR, [United States Army, Europe].

I got my orders, made my way to the fort bus stop, and rode to town. I went from the Monterey airport to San Francisco Airport direct to New York. I walked all over the city and loved being on top of the Empire State Building. While others may have had reservations about not knowing anyone in NYC and being susceptible to holdups and the like, had anyone tried to hold me up, I would have trounced him; I was gung ho, and had just surmounted a deadly disease; no one person was able to upset me! I have no memory of the flight but flying is always exciting and the jet landed in Milano in the morning and I casually deboarded. I picked up my duffel bag and walked to the front of the airport and sitting there just waiting for me, was a military bus. They had a copy of my orders and matched it to my ID and my orders and I was on the way to the city of Vicenza, via Verona [the bus ended its trip at Leghorn, aka, Lavorno but I was not going that far today!] These three cities were the bases for SETAF. In two hours, I was dropped off at my new unit, HHC, 560th Signal Battalion, at Camp Ederle [which today houses special forces, and the 560th Signal has been dismantled.]

I arrived in Italy in February 1965 and was as excited as I was bored. Excited by being in Italy, bored by two very long plane rides and a long bus ride. Soon, with sergeant's orders in my ear [not loud, but potent], I was assigned a room and a bunk and switched clothes from “Class As” to fatigues. Today, soldiers may travel freely in fatigues but in the 60's, they could only go to their homes or be on base in fatigues and the rest of the time -off base, they needed to be in their DRESS uniform [Class As]. In short order, I met my room mates, [no more bunk beds], and walked to my work area, an administration building, a mile up near the front of the post/base. This base had perhaps 2,500 soldiers with Verona holding as many and Leghorn also as many. We did have plain clothes security forces in different towns keeping a watch for Communists who might be coming in from Russia. Italy already had a Communist party so this watching for the Russian Communists confused me. My boss was a Chief Warrant Officer, about 40 years of age. I had just turned 18 two months previous. In short order, out came the soldiers and their 214's and my typewriter and the myriad of regulations to be followed to make sure everyone had correct paperwork. Whoopie.

Kevin McCue was a room mate as was Ray Erwin. Kevin and Ray were 5 years my senior and a unique pair. Both had traveled, during leaves, to the UK, so they said and met wonderful British ladies. Their stories were entertaining. Mr. McCue was a soldier like no other I would ever meet. Kevin McCue was a private, E2, with no stripe. He had been in the service perhaps 2 years and tolerated it. He had some skill I had forgotten what, but he abhorred the military so much that he refused to accept any rank above E2. He did what he was told to do and not a lick more. He was positively a smart ass when he could get away with it. He could easily make one laugh and I think he had a degree in Political Science or English. I once came within 2 seconds of challenging his pacifist role but thought better of it; making friends was hard enough; no need to piss off the few ones I did have. Kevin took advantage of Ray Erwin. Ray was not as smart as Kevin and had more money. Ray also bought a BMW and he and Kevin McCue were off base within 5 minutes of the end of each work day. Ray got boozed too much one day and at reveille one morning, he was “Shit faced” and being smart enough to stand in back of our formation, puked through the entire machinations of roll call and announcements. I “Grew up” in the army, or, matured if you wish. I had not enjoyed the different values in hygiene and had wound up scratching my legs excessively one week. I went on sick call. I think I was a 1-2 days a week showerer. Soldier's work makes one stink anyway so why sweat showers was my attitude. Anyway, I went on sick call because of my right leg itching so badly. When I rolled down my sock, my right leg was covered in crabs. GROSS! I honestly do not know where I caught them from but I was in the shower in 1 minute and my barracks was being cleaned from top to bottom when I returned that evening. Oh well. That did teach me about hygiene. I took daily showers from that day on. [Little penis and all.] After a bit, I became disenfranchised with the rigors of typing and the formalities of my good old DD124 and the army's other forms and was read the riot act by my Chief Warrant Officer. Within 3 months, my attitude had not really improved and thus, my neatness and follow-through on forms had not adequately improved and I was removed from my position as a Personnel Specialist and demoted in work title identifier from 71H20 to 716.10 or whatever it was and is, to clerk. [wow, first time I had remembered that-those identifiers in 40 years!] I was sent back to my company to find other work. [too bad too, cause my Personnel Specialist work area contained some nice Italian ladies-who politely ignored me].

I was, over the next year, assigned as generator repair specialist, M49 jeep repair specialist, battalion training driving and weapon specialist and PRISON guard and driver for a major [who visited missile silos one day]! Our command it was rumored, had the highest volunteer rate for Vietnam out of the entire U.S. Army. One day, at reveille, a new soldier showed up that was as sharp looking as he was out of place. He wore a green beret. In short order, our battalion commander yelled out “Soldier, you are out of uniform.” To that, our sharper than a tack beret responded “Sir, according to Army Regulations x y and z [I do not remember what he quoted] Green Berets will wear this headgear.” To that, our smart mouth lieutenant colonel said something like “Soldier, according to other army regulations, I am the commander of this outfit and I decide what the proper uniform is.”

I was offered two separate trips to Murnau, Germany, to attend the generator and vehicle repair school. Murnau is a few miles north of Garmish/Partenkerschen, the main recreation area for our soldiers assigned to Germany. The trip from Vicenza to Murnau on the train is a unique trip-so I will offer comments on it. The cost in the 60's was very reasonable and I had to pay for none of it. I was only responsible for hotels if I chose to take an extra day. The train goes up through Switzerland and over to Austria and then, I switch trains to go to Murnau, a stop on the way to Munich. The trip is/was very pretty and more! I chose to stop over in Basel, Swiss after doing some touring and a hotel manager let me spend the night in a chair to save $15. At about 6 in the morning, I walked the 2 blocks to the train station and caught the train. Some time in the early afternoon, the train I was on did something so cute and yet to “territorial” that I had to laugh [but not at anyone so I did not offend anyone.] The trip winds through Swiss this and that way and winds up in the meadows and farm lands and for about ONE HUNDRED yards, it passes through Austria before it returns to Swiss on its way to its major city stop of Innsbruck, also in Austria. I was dumbfounded when the train came to a stop in the meadows-with nothing around but beautiful grass and flowers. Shortly after the stop, a new conductor came around and sought the equivalent of twenty five cents for permission to travel through this part of Austria. That made absolutely no sense to me. Since my destination was Austria and I started out in Swiss, why could not the two nations get together and collect for entire route and divvy it out as applicable? Regardless, again, it was so cute [if they had only had a yodeler and a glass of beer, it would have been perfect] that I paid without asking further questions! My time in school in Murnau was interesting and successful. I learned about generators. I was a generator operator for 1 whole day when I returned to my base two weeks later. Visiting Garmisch and Partenkirchen was delightful and I met a Hanalore, about 23 yrs of age and we took the tram to the top of the Zugspitz, their tallest mountain in the area. Hanalore posed in a bathing suit for me so I had my hoorah satisfied. I could have asked for more. I did not.

Back at the base in Italy, I was offered the chance to become a teacher and I loved it. I taught the superior way to drive the new M151 jeep as it had a more flexible spring and suspension system and our soldiers were tipping them over in large numbers and dying. Next, I taught the use of the M79 grenade launcher which looks like a sawed off shot gun. I also taught the use of the LAW, Light Anti-tank Weapon. I loved teaching. I was given respect for 1 hour a day and treated like a sergeant. In time, I was transferred to a different company in our battalion and I adapted as well as a 19 yr old male could. I met Mario Violante, our base Italian -English translator and we had few but fun times together, he being about 25 at the time and paid 1/4 what I was. Twice, I was also assigned to accompany a wild guy from our battalion who had been caught playing footsie with a girl in the theater and sentenced to 5-15 yrs hard labor, in Livorno-Leghorn. I carried a 45 caliber side arm and he had to travel in hand cuffs. I had known him slightly and trusted him maybe more than I should have. He did not take advantage of that trust. I also learned to use a 20 gage shotgun in Livorno with the directive, “Aim to main, not to miss.” During my off times in Livorno, I met a few guys and one guy and I hit it off so we would go cruising in his car. We struck out but we had fun together. Speedos came into fashion about 15 years later but in Italy, I bought a similar suit and thought I looked good in it. I wore in 2-3 times and the girls seemed pleased. I once swam out 200 yards out to a cabin cruiser to help a girl swim into shore. That was very pleasing. I did not push the issue and said bye to her on shore. I never wore that suit again. I amaze myself that I ever did wear it. On December 31, 1965, my friend got a speeding ticket by the MPs [military police] in town. They had no patience for anyone speeding at any time! Damn I also broke my watch during a test firing of the shot gun. I have a deviated septum from birth and wanted to get my nose to work better so I had been to Livorno earlier but the doctor said my nose was too small for him to do any good with it.

In Vicenza, I was befriended by Ferrucio Alliana, a pastacherria [pastry shop] owner and his wife. I loved sweet pasta and it was for sale at prices I could afford. One day, in my best Italian, I chatted with Ferrucio and he invited me to go with him on his Vespa to the ancient castle that once housed the real Romeo and Juliet. It was neat being there.

Soldiers in Europe had to go on frequent “Field problems” which meant being awoken at odd hours in the morning, dressing rapidly and heading to the motor pool. Our respective platoon sergeants would then give us directions and we would soon join a huge caravan of perhaps 150 vehicles and head north by north west, as if we were going out to set up communications systems for our command officers who were responsible to inform the USAREUR filed generals if Russia was coming over the hills from Yugoslavia, just off to our right. We soldiers were both lucky and unlucky; lucky that Russia did not choose to attack the rest of Europe and unlucky that we had to camp out in the fields, with our wired communications, and our tents and our mess hall, and all that goes with it. We met lots of “Louies”, our name for the Italian farmers who rented us their fields for the duration of our field exercise that could run from 3 to 7 days. On several of these, if my tent mates could stand me, I would be directed to visit the different farmers and using my best Italian [rather limited, to be honest] see if I could barter some of our K rations [now MREs] for some wine. I always succeeded.
Another interesting day was when we had our annual PT tests; tests to see how well we threw dummy hand grenades, long jumped and ran the mile. [in fatigues and boots!] I knew that today, I would surprise many people. A squad has about 12 men, a platoon about 4 squads, a company about 4 platoons, and a battalion has about 4 companies, thus about 704 soldiers. During most of the tests, I scored average at best. But during the mile, I began aggressive and found the 5 fastest runners. The running test had about 1 platoon at a time. At the 3/4 mile point, I had moved up a smidgen and the smokers had fallen out. At the finish, I was number 2, about 40 ahead of where everyone thought I would be. Battalion wise, I came in 5th.

A few months later came voting day. Since I was a “mouth”, I volunteered to give a small speech. On the speech day, two high school girls gave speeches and I was the only soldier to volunteer to speak and I was congratulated by the Command general. That was a brief “High!”

I dated for 2 weeks, a skinny lady about twice my age who spoke broken English. She gave me the inference her father was an officer in the Mafia. I wanted to try a comic routine and see what might happen. I did not confirm if she was teasing me or not but I visited a house he was doing door work at and acted like a tourist and chatted with him for 1-2 minutes acting like a tourist from California who had no focus or cares in the world. He looked mildly menacing and I got a kick out of “Being cool” for 2 minutes of my life. I felt afterwards that I accomplished nothing by doing that but I did feel macho while doing it.

On the trains I took to Livorno two times, I had nice chats with different Italian and English speaking passengers and was also intrigued by the adaptability of the natives. In lieu of roadside public toilets, at least at this time in Italy's history, people had to solve their concerns by simply stopping along side the roads [which often ran parallel to the trains] and just unzip or raise one's dress and squat, right there and then.

I wanted to see the county from atop Vicenza's tallest building and got permission from the mayor and got some good pictures in December. It was not only beautiful but unfortunately also reminded me of war torn Italy and Germany. And the bird crap on the stairway proved that either the Italians had no cleaning teams for this building or no one had climbed it in decades.

I have written separately about a field trip to Marostica, the city of the living pieces Chess Game.

One month, a soldier suggested we all go on strike because we paid $5 a month to the kitchen workers in lieu of being on KP ourselves and thus, we should earn one day off of work each month. To pay an Italian to do our duty and yet, not to have time off was a rip-off. After a week of discussions, the commanders convinced everyone else to just keep up the system as Uncle Sam needed us and the $5 was not that big a deal. I was the only holdout in the entire battalion. I was given an article 15 for failure to obey a directive to pay my KP fee. F.

I can honestly say that I kept my eyes open, and learned both about life and the military as a young soldier in Italy. I also earned an unenviable record; I had 7 article 15s before I was honorably discharged from the army in August of 1967. An article 15 is non-judicial punishment. Usually, after 5, a soldier is given a general discharge. However, I earned all of my 15s via “Chicken shit” petty activities. The army can be cantankerous when it wishes to be.

I was assigned back to the states in October of 1966. I was assigned to be a clerk at CDCEC, Combat Development Command, Experimentation Command, located both at Ft Ord and at Hunter Liggett Military Reservation, located about 50 miles south east of Ft Ord. Liggett was a test range for the new M16 rifles and other weapons. I was still a PFC [single striper then] and assigned to be a clerk for a trailer “Up on the range” with a major, captain and a master sergeant. The duty was horribly monotonous but at least I was treated with much more respect by my superiors. One day, I took my newly bought used car [bought when I went home on a short leave] and drove up on some of the range's dirt roads, as a buddy and I sought out places to do target shooting. After driving around for 30 minutes this Saturday, an MP jeep came upon us and asked what we were doing. We nonchalantly explained and the sergeant told us incredulously, that the dirt roads had not been cleared of ordnance and the area had many unexploded M79 rounds. Hmmm. Ok. We never had seen one sign to that effect. Finally, another big day approached, the day the IG [Inspector General] arrived to handle GI complaints. Although I was to be discharged in under 60 days, I still wanted to have more pay and higher rank and my master sergeant did not seem motivated to help me so I got immediate permission to see the IG. I brought along my test papers and scores from typing and other material, explained I was already 24 months, 3 weeks time in grade [no one had ever not gotten a promotion in the entire sixth army with as much time in grade as a PFC, so I held an unenviable record] and the IG promoted me on the spot to Specialist Forth Grade!! I hated another PFC and offered to shoot the ass-and was going to give him some orders to leave me alone but the damn IG [my buddy one minute previously] promoted him to the same rank! SHIT!

I completed my three year enlistment honorably in August of 1967. I did not earn a good conduct medal because of my 7 article 15s but I learned a lot; about traveling [visited 16 nations], almost became engaged to an Israeli girl in Haifa, Israel, learned how to kill, clean, maintain, follow orders and the difference between waste and efficiency.

I re-entered the military by joining the California National Guard a few years after my separation. California had a “Bump up one” so I entered the first time in the guard as a Sp5, and was an Executive Officer's driver for a battalion, attended Ft Ord's NCO academy to learn how to teach formally and was honorably released a year later. The following year, I re-entered the guard and this time as a Sgt E5. “3 stripes, yeah!” My first assignment was as a battalion supply sergeant's helper [he was a Platoon Sergeant, E7]. During my 2nd drill, I noticed a photo van parked in the center of our armory. I inquired about openings and was told an opening did exist. I immediately went to my supervisor and he happily released me so that I could join the photo unit as one of only two sergeants within it. A week later, our battalion went to the Hunter Liggett area but an area I had not seen before. There, the California Guard has tank practice and other training. I took my own camera and shot pictures of tank training, recoilless rifle training and firing and got pictures of a fire that one rifle caused that threatened an ammo dump. I met a major general who was visiting the recoilless training. That was exciting too. There were 5 photographers to cover this extensive two week summer drill. Normally, each photographer was able to have as many as two pictures printed in our summer review newspaper; I had 5 pictures printed. I was gleeful.

A year later, I thought I would try for higher rank after being honorably separated from the guard with my Sergeant's stripes. I entered the California ROTC program as their oldest candidate, being in my mid 30's. It was exciting as I was asked a lot of questions about the service and what I did [both good and poorly] in Italy. During our two week training, we were taken to a field near a building settlement about 25 miles east of Sacramento. I was stoked! Ready for bear! We were told to leave all but our canteens at this stop point [jackets, tents, food, etc] and to march to an area one mile away. Soon, we were on a unique march, which stopped every two to three miles as the student commander and his junior officers rated the new ROTC candidates. At each stop, changes were made as to fire team leaders, tail guards, platoon leaders, company commanders, and battalion commander. It was exciting. I put my experiences to work and remembered John Wayne's movie, Green Beret's and how they went through their Vietnam jungle. Finally, after ½ the day gone, I was appointed battalion commander or executive officer. I was advised not to use the slur “Ten hut” but instead, command the full “Attention!” And I was shown how to spread out my troops in case we came under fire. I was so stoked!! That evening, we arrived at a camping area but had to enter previously dug fox holes and take other cover. We were told an “Enemy” had been discovered and they were coming after us, so we had to go from being attackers to being defenders. Two slight problems, no food and no jackets. Both had been left behind and the adult and student commanders had decided to leave them where they were [guarded but of no value to us many miles East of its location]. Without ammo we were told to yell out bang bang. I laughed but not too loud. Finally, just before dawn, the enemy were sighted. At the proper moment, we began yelling “BANG, bang, bang” as loud as we could. I guess I yelled the loudest and longest. I was still stoked. When the fight was over we were brought together and after the real major and his student officers huddled, they said something like “candidates, we have chosen the candidate with the highest demonstrated skills and best attitude, candidate Kemper!” Yeah! A few weeks later, while I was still a college student, the personnel office called me and said that some of my paperwork was incomplete. I informed them that according to Title , of such and such law, they were not permitted to ask those questions. [I forget what the questions were now] I was offered the chance to answer them or leave ROTC. I chose to follow the law and not answer. I am not sure that was the better choice.

Four months later, I was visiting the Navy recruiting center in S. Sacramento and found a “Billet” for a Lieutenant in the PIO [Public Information Office]. Wow, a chance to become an officer! I was given some paperwork to fill out, did so and was given a document that paid for a round trip ticket back to the same old recruiting center in Oakland I had been to years earlier. I bussed there, went through the physicals, health check-ups, and more. After a few hours of those, I was ushered into the interview room to discuss my Information job and make sure I had all the qualifications. I was asked if I had a master's degree in either photography or Journalism. I said I did not but I had a different area covered and I had the experience. With the simplest of ease and nonchalance, the gentleman [I saw no rank] said, “You may go.” Huh? That was it? He opened his requirements book and said I had to have a graduate degree in one of those two fields and that was not waiverable. Pooh. Shot down. NO officer ranking for me!

That, ladies and gents, is pretty much my military history. I gained, I learned. I have my war stories. War is hell… maybe because of some of the regulations in place!

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