by Linda Ellen
We’re all so proud of you, Gary. We know you’ll do well. They’ll make a movie about your exploits against the enemy some day, I’ll just bet. They’ll call it, “Tucker’s Heroes”, and Gregory Peck will play you. I wonder how he’ll handle playing triplets, haha.
She paused again, grinning at that last line and hoping it would make him smile when he read it. Something told her that he was finding basic training to be harder than he ever dreamed and she hoped a letter from home would give him a few moments of pleasure. As that thought passed through her mind, she shut her eyes and whispered, “Oh Dear Lord, strengthen Gary. Help him in everything he has to do and learn in this new venture. In Jesus’ Name, amen.”
Feeling a measure of peace after her prayer, she put pen to paper once again.
Know that I am praying for strength and success for you, Gary. May God find many ways to bless you.
Well, I guess I’ll get this fixed up for the post. Write me back when you get it and let me know how things are going. I’d love to hear anything you want to tell me. What your days are like, what they’re teaching you, your worries and your triumphs. Tell me everything.
And know that we all miss you…
Fondly,
Julie
She spent a few moments reading back what she had written and, feeling a warm satisfaction, she folded the letter and inserted it in the envelope, addressing it to Officer Candidate Gareth Tucker, Jr., Miami Beach Training Center, Miami Beach, Florida. As she read his name, an image of one day in the not-too-distant future writing, 2nd Lieutenant Gareth Tucker, Jr. caused a smile to curve her lips. The memory of those amazing blue eyes flashed at her as if he was pleased with the moniker.
Lieutenant Tucker. Would he ever be her blue-eyed lieutenant?
A girl can hope, right? But if friends is all we ever are, best friends, even…I’ll take that. I’d rather be Gary’s friend than have nothing of him at all… And with the war on and Gary determined to fly bombers over Germany, anything with him would be far in the future…
With a soft sigh, she set the letter aside to post as soon as she could, then putting her things away, she turned out the lamp, removed her robe, and laid it across the end of the bed before settling down under the covers to try and go to sleep.
However, visions of her moments with Gary jitterbugged on the movie screen in her mind. Images of looking up into his beautiful blue eyes as they danced the evening away left her with a contented feather of a smile.
Funny—in those images, he looked splendid in his lieutenant’s uniform, but she’d yet to see him in it.
Imagination is an amazing thing.
It occurred to her that the following day was Saturday, and she hoped it would be a time when the recruits at the training center would be allowed to relax.
She made a sleepy mental note to ask him in her next letter…
CHAPTER 9
Two weeks later
Miami Beach Training Center, Florida
The Rigors of Basic Training
The shrill blast of a whistle jolted Gary out of a deep sleep.
In an instant, his eyes popped open, a curse word slipped through his lips, and his heart revved into high gear. Since he was closest to the wall, he vaulted out of his bunk and over to the window to close the blinds so that the light could be turned on in the room.
It was 5:30 AM and dark outside—and there was a blackout. After all, there was a war going on and they were on one of America’s coastlines. It was a reality that an enemy could be out there, somewhere, watching.
“Alright ladies, beauty sleep’s over. Time to rise it and shine it!” bellowed the obnoxious, bullhorn-like voice of Drill Sergeant Orville Bigelow.
Gary had quickly learned to positively loathe the sergeant and his wake up call routine with the ear-splitting whistle and his blaring orders—perhaps because the man seemed to delight in the misery he caused the recruits under his command.
Groaning, Gary stretched his arms up over his head, and then quickly twisted right and left, trying to work the stiffness and kinks out of his back. His back? Pfft, more like his whole body.
Had he really thought that his years playing baseball and running track in high school and college would ensure he was in good enough shape to handle whatever the army threw at him?
Boy, had he been wrong.
Between hours of calisthenics out on the hot Florida sand, hundreds of military-style push-ups, miles of marching in close order drill, and sweating in a wool uniform while standing at attention—perfectly still, with no movement for thirty agonizing minutes at a time while his feet went numb, sweat dripping off his nose, and an ant crawling on his neck that he couldn’t knock off—he had allowed himself quite a few silent dressing-downs along the order of, Tucker, you idiot! What have you gotten yourself into?! Tell me, again, why you couldn’t wait to give up your cushy job at Tucker Manufacturing and join the army.
The first week, his muscles had screamed in fatigue each night when, at 11 PM, he and his fellow officer candidates fell onto their bunks for a few winks of sleep. That is, after studying for hours after supper for the many classes they were taking in between all their physical activities.
Geeze, Gary had thought after his first full day at the Miami camp, I’d figured Steve and Gene were pulling my leg with all of their crazy tips on how to survive boot camp—like don’t volunteer for anything, don’t eat the scrambled eggs, never tell the drill sergeant, “I don’t know,” and try to never laugh at anything he says to you, no matter how funny. He’ll be just waiting for you to laugh so he can make you drop and give him fifty push-ups. Now I’m wondering how either one of them made it through—especially since everyone says the regular Joes in army basic have it even worse than we do. How did Quick-Comeback Steve make it through without landing in the stockade?
“I wish Bigelow and that whistle would take a flyin’ leap off a short pier,” growled Officer Candidate Paul Bloch from the cot next to Gary, adding a few more salty phrases. “I’d like to stick him in a bomb casing and let him drop, somewhere over the Atlantic.”
Gary immediately reached over and cuffed the back of his roommate’s head. “C’mon, get to your feet, Bloch. You know the Sarge has eyes and ears in the back of his head. He hears you, we’ll all be doin’ fifty at the water’s edge.”
For good measure, Gary cast an eye at the two others in the room. The memory of that very thing happening, more than once, materialized in their weary brains and they all pictured the day before. A hapless trainee, aka one of their fellow candidates, had complained about a command and Bigelow had ordered them all to give him fifty push-ups on the beach. With their noses in the water as the surf surged, crashing in and out, they were all left gasping like drowning rats.
Knowing they had a mere five minutes to dress and get outside to fall in for inspection, the four officer candidates stumbled over one another in their haste to ready themselves for the day ahead—and whatever new torture Bigelow thought up next.
As he mechanically performed his morning rituals, Gary’s mind hazily drifted back over the seemingly slow moving three weeks since his arrival.
It had taken almost two days to reach the training facility in the south Florida island city. The bus Gary had boarded headed east to deliver him and quite a few other officer candidates to Cincinnati to catch a troop train going south. Once on board, the train stopped multiple times along the nearly 1,200-mile route to pick up more trainees.
It hadn’t been a bad ride, although the Pullman drawing room he’d been assigned to had a lower and an upper bunk, and he’d had to share the lower with another recruit, Paul Bloch—who snored. The food had been good, though, with three meals a day in the kitchen car. Those on board passed the time with card games, singing, chewing the fat, reading magazines or newspapers, sharing their dreams and ambitions, or maybe writing to their girl or wife back home.
They had gotten to know one another during those long hours. The majority of the enlistees
who had arrived with him were predominantly men with business, teaching, or specialized experience, and Gary had been surprised that nearly all of them were from thirty to forty-five years old. Bloch had told him he’d already passed his thirtieth birthday. Matter of fact, Gary was one of the youngest there—the whiz kid of his unit—or so his fellow candidates had begun calling him when they shared information about themselves that first day.
Gary had wondered many times during the lengthy trip why the recruiters hadn’t put them in an army transport plane and flew them out of Bowman Field.
Now, he figured the long trip was the first lesson of basic training—hurry up and wait.
After he and his travel mates had arrived and lined up for their first assessment as a group, they had immediately been hustled in to sit through a long induction briefing given by a short, stocky man who had identified himself as the commanding officer of the AAC Miami Beach Service Base, Colonel Louis Merillet.
Among a myriad of information crammed into such a short amount of time, they had learned that this Army Air Corps Officer Training School was being facilitated utilizing hotels and apartments instead of buildings hastily constructed by the military. Specifically, the armed forces had leased for their use a whopping eighty-five percent of Miami Beach’s hotel rooms, and currently over 60,000 men were being housed in some 326 hotels and over 90 apartments near the beach. As a businessman, Gary had to admit he admired the War Department’s resourcefulness, as it resulted in the army’s needs being satisfied in a fraction of the time and cost.
Merillet had gone on to say, “The war needs men, that’s a given. But Miami Beach is already busting at the seams with uniforms and no end in sight. As you can imagine, the city fathers were not happy to see us all flood their turf, and we mean to keep them on our side—that means no shenanigans will be tolerated, gentlemen. NONE. This is no vacation getaway and no spring break holiday. Drunk and disorderly conduct or destructive mischief of any kind is grounds for expulsion from the program.”
Gary’s eyes had widened at that and he had exchanged a look with the recruit on his right. He hoped those guys who had made wisecracks about boot camp in Miami Beach being a walk in the park with lots of booze, women, and song, were listening.
The colonel had added that the number of officer candidates crowding into the accommodations would likely exceed 80,000 by the end of the year if the recruiters kept sending men their way. As soon as they had crossed a bridge into Miami Beach, Gary had seen that the popular coastal resort city was indeed crawling with uniformed servicemen.
Immediately after their induction briefing and trip to the barber for their regulation short-short military haircut, Gary and three others had been assigned to a room on the third floor of The Senator, a small, three-story art deco jewel of a hotel, situated only fifty feet from the ocean. It boasted a lovely foyer and large, pleasantly cool hallways. At first glance, while juggling all of the gear he’d been issued and making his way to his quarters with the other new recruits, Gary had mused that at any other time it probably would have been paradise on earth to stay at The Senator. However, the ambiance had been spoiled by the fact that standard issue army cots, footlockers, and only the bare essentials had replaced the hotel’s elegant furniture.
The new arrivals had quickly learned that although they were quartered in what normally would have been a comfortable hotel, that didn’t stop their drill sergeant from dispensing the customary recruit hazing; all a part of basic training and military life.
Hence, that blasted whistle.
Hearing Bigelow shouting at a slow moving recruit on the floor below snapped Gary out of his reverie and his heart rate tripled at the thought that he might be late to morning lineup. He couldn’t afford to give the sergeant ammunition for any more demerits. He’d already managed to rack up five for absolutely tiny (in Gary’s mind anyway) infractions. At seven demerits he would spend an hour of his first Sunday off marching with a rifle—back and forth across a field. Fifty demerits washed you out of the program and he had ten weeks to go. He was taking no chances.
Thinking about Sergeant Bigelow, Gary wondered if the military-to-the-bone non-com had it in for them, and especially for him. After all, once they were commissioned as second lieutenants, each one of these recruits, including himself, would instantly outrank the tough-as-nails sergeant. That had to be hard to swallow.
But then he would steadfastly remind himself that Bigelow treated all of them the same way—as if they were lamebrains and do-nothings. They weren’t, of course, but Gary knew they were each being tested for endurance under every kind of stress. The army wanted to find out whether these men who have volunteered or been picked to command could learn to obey; as the soldier who cannot stand up under strict regulations, discipline, and restrictions, cannot discipline himself or others.
Gary wondered sometimes, though, if Sergeant Bigelow had decided to see if he could make the whiz kid wash out of the flight program.
Well, if that’s the case, Sarge, you’ve got another think coming. I’m going to fly B-17’s and neither you nor anyone is going to get in my way.
Finishing his morning ablutions faster than the speed of light, he joined the mad rush double-timing it down three flights of stairs. The hotel did have an elevator, but the recruits were strictly forbidden from using it. Not only that, they must double-time it both ways. If they didn’t, they got demerits—and there was always someone watching.
Spilling out with the others into the grassy area in front of the hotel’s front doors just in time to fall in for morning inspection, Gary groaned inwardly and tried to remember if he had everything tucked, creased, shined, and polished. Did he remember to line up his shirt buttons with his belt buckle? Oh man, I hope so. Can’t check now, here he comes… Gary held himself at attention, chest out, shoulders back, and sucked in a breath.
The bald, tattooed bruiser of a drill sergeant reached him fifteen seconds later and raked his gaze from the top of Gary’s head to the tips of his shoes as Gary kept his focus front and center.
“Tie’s a quarter inch crooked, Tucker! Don’t let it happen again!” he yelled in Gary’s face. Gary willed himself not to flinch as the spray hit the skin below his eyes.
“YES SIR!” he replied in the forceful manner Bigelow expected. Bigelow grunted his satisfaction and moved on to the next man. Gary closed his eyes and slowly allowed himself a measure of calm, and then opened them again and—face like a stone—stared straight ahead, chest out, shoulders back, chin high.
As the sergeant roared his way down the row of men, Gary mentally counted off the days until he would be through with basic and could get on to the business of learning to fly B-17’s.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered how Julie was doing, but he snapped his attention back to the business at hand.
It wouldn’t do to let the Sarge catch him woolgathering about a girl back home…
Then the sergeant gave the order and the officer candidates saluted, turned on their heels, and double-timed it back inside—and up all three flights of stairs.
They had until 6:10 to brush their teeth and straighten their room to meet Bigelow’s exacting standards.
Gary spread, smoothed, and tucked the sheet and blanket on his bunk into a block tight enough to bounce a quarter, which was one of many things they were shown the first long day. And man, oh, man, if that quarter didn’t bounce, Bigelow took great pleasure in stripping everything off the bed and then standing there and watching while the recruit remade it.
Right on time, the squadron fell into formation for their morning march before breakfast. At this point during the first few days, Gary had felt frustration and anger at having been awakened before sunrise, yelled at, and rushed to the point of insanity. But now, three weeks in, he and the others were getting settled into the routine. He wondered what tune they would march to today. Not only must they follow orders and ignore their empty bellies, they must do it with a positive attitude, hence the use of the
cadence or a song. One of the officers chose the song, I want a Girl just like the Girl that Married Dear Old Dad—so that’s what they sang.
Gary and the 120 men of the 8th Squadron, arranged in straight lines and four abreast, marched down the middle of a street near the hotel, with houses on either side and cars parked out front, and sang, in perfect male military harmony.
It was Sunday, the day to worship the creator. There were Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish services to choose from, all held outside in the open air. The recruits had been informed that attendance was obligatory the first six weeks of their training. Some guys had squawked at first, but Colonel Merillet had gone on to state that although attendance was mandatory the first six weeks, it never failed that attendance the second six weeks would be surprisingly high.
“It seems a man’s moral values become clearer to him in the armed forces,” Colonel Merillet had mused. “It was General MacArthur, who said at Bataan, ‘There are no atheists in fox holes’, and gentlemen, that has proven true time and again.”
Personally, Gary thought it a good thing, because at this point, they could all use a little help from the Almighty just to make it through basic training, much less excel and rise to the top of the class—which was where each and every one of them aspired to be.
Later, after a quick breakfast, Gary went to a Protestant service—double-timing it all the way.
CHAPTER 10
Late Tuesday afternoon, Gary and his fellow recruits trotted in from hand-to-hand combat training conducted on the beach. He was tired, sweaty, and in a bit of a foul mood because he’d gotten whacked in the head more than once with those blasted padded sticks. His only thought was getting upstairs and scrounging up a few minutes for a shower before the next scheduled activity.
Well, maybe not his only thought. That morning, after breakfast, the recruits that had commenced training the same day Gary had, were congratulated on reaching their three-week mark, and had been presented with messages, packages, and mail from home that had been sent during the period of non-communication.