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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