Another guy , Parker, was from a wealthy family in Glendale. He had spent two years at the Pasadena Playhouse, and had an Associate of Arts degree in acting. He was a handsome guy, in a chubby-cheeked way, and he had a wardrobe of expensive civilian clothes. But he hadn't learned a hell of a lot about acting at the Pasadena Playhouse. He could laugh at will, creating a half dozen different kinds of laughter, and make each one sound sincere, but his voice was too high-pitched to play any parts other than someone's casual friend. Unable to find any acting jobs, and unwilling to sell real estate with his father, he had enlisted in the cavalry. Parker hadn't given up the idea of acting; he merely figured that three years in the service would toughen him up and get rid of his baby face so he could eventually play gangster roles in movies. In this respect, Parker was one of the few guys I had met in the service with a long—range life plan.
The one guy in our basic training platoon became quite friendly with, in addition to Tullio Micaloni, was Eddie Furler. Furler was an ex-marine, but he had hated his life on an aircraft carrier and had re-enlisted in the cavalry after spending almost all four of his years in the marines at sea. Furler, Micaloni, and I were the only P.S. men in the platoon. When our platoon leader made the assignments, we were each made acting squad leaders.
I was at a disadvantage here because, unlike Furler and Micaloni, I knew nothing about the Springfield rifle, the .45 semiautomatic pistol, or the water-cooled .30 caliber machine guns, and they knew these weapons well. Even the close order drill I had learned in the Air Corps was of little help to me here, because dismounted drill in the cavalry was the same as the mounted drill. I also, like everyone else, had to learn the manual of arms, and Furler was of great help to me in this respect. When he brought his rifle to port arms and slapped his tightened sling, you could hear the crack of his palm against the sling five hundred yards away. It sounded just like a rifle·report. When he went through the manual of arms it was visual poetry, so precise and fluid were his movements.
One other guy I'll mention now is Jack Burns, who claimed to be an Indian. The other recruits took him at his word and immediately started calling him "Chief," which is the accepted practice in the Army when a man says he's an Indian. I suspected that the man was a Negro, not an Indian, although he wasn't much darker than the Portuguese fishermen who went out looking for sardines every morning from Monterey Harbor. But I kept my suspicions to myself.
Corporal Royale, our instructor and platoon leader for the ninety days of basic, was on his second enlistment. He had spent his first enlistment in the 8th Cavalry, in El Paso, and he had been promoted to corporal after only two years at the Presidio. I thought when he first took over the pla- toon that he was about thirty-five years old, and was surprised when I learned later that he was only twenty-seven. He was tall, two or three inches above six feet, and he had the lined and furrowed face of a Texan who has spent his entire life in the sun, which he had. His sun-wrinkled face made him look older than he was, but he was a fine-looking trooper and an excellent rider. He wore a pearl gray twenty-dollar Stetson campaign hat, which he had sent away for, and all of his uniforms were tailored. He wore a green gabardine shirt and high-pegged elastique breeches, and had somehow managed to obtain two pairs of the highly prized yellow boots. We were all issued brown leather boots, which we had to dye cordovan and then polish, but his bright yellow boots, which took a high shine and were of better quality leather than the brown boots, were no longer issued. If a man had a pair of the yellow ones he could sell them easily to another trooper for as much as twenty-five dollars. And Corporal Royale owned two pairs!
A tailor made gabardine shirt cost ten dollars and tailor-made elastique breeches were thirty-two dollars at the post tailor's shop, so a lot of Corporal Royale's salary had gone into expensive uniforms. The power in Machine Gun Troop, meaning First Sergeant Mike Brasely, was apparently grooming Corporal Royale for promotion to buck sergeant. That's why he had been assigned to give us our ninety days of basic training. Ordinarily we would have had a buck sergeant in charge. In addition to writing the curriculum, preparing lectures, and training us in equitation and everything else, Royale had to write progress reports on all thirty recruits. His reports would be used by the various first sergeants to determine what kind of assignments we would get when we were turned to duty. He had an unenviable job all right, and he was with us every day from First Call right up until he turned the lights out in our squad-room at nine P.M. For the next ninety days we were virtually prisoners, except for Saturday afternoons, when we were given passes at one PM., which were good until midnight. We had to be in bed every other night at nine PM.
***
ON THE FIRST MORNING OF TRAINING, WHEN CORPORAL Royale marched us in a column of twos to the Machine Gun Troop stables, where we would get our tack and be assigned horses, there was a great deal of tension in the platoon. None of us had ever ridden a horse, and those horses tied on the picket line loomed very large. But at least I felt like a soldier; I was wearing a uniform, complete with boots and necktie. We had our gray goatskin gloves tucked into our belts, and we had already been told that anytime we were mounted we would be required to have these gloves on our hands. This rule was stressed, so we had already checked one another out before we left the barracks to make certain we all had our gloves.
Another rule that was stressed was that we had to carry our curb chains, for the curb bit, in our right-hand pocket. These curb chains, which were attached to the curb bit by hooks, were heavy, and they were kept in the pocket to prevent rust or loss. If the curb chain got a little rusty anyway, the rust could be removed by keeping the chain in a Bull Durham sack partially filled with sand.
Corporal Royale had already shown us how to fold the chain inside the right fist, just in case we ever happened to get into a fight with one of the Portuguese fishermen in town. If you held it correctly, it worked better than brass knuckles, he said, and fishermen who had been hit with a drain-loaded fist rarely picked a fight with a cavalryman again. This was useful information, but we learned so much that first morning I wasn't sure I could remember it all.
The saddler, Baldy Allen, who was only five four, measured us for saddles. We were issued McClellan saddles, saddle blankets, our bridles with snaffle and curb bits, saddle soap, dock rags, and other grooming equipment. Corporal Royale checked us over to make certain we had everything we were entitled to and then taught us how to clean the saddles on the racks outside the stables for saddle equipment. While we were cleaning our equipment we were also leaming the names of the different parts of the bridle and saddle. We kept our grooming tools, feed sacks, and nose bags in our saddle bags.
The cleaning took more than an hour, and then we were given racks in the tack room to keep our equipment. After a ten-minute break we reassembled at the picket line. Corporal Royale told us to gather around him as he taught us the parts of the horse, using a horse named Snip as his model. Snip, he said, was a ridgling. A ridgling, he explained, was a gelding that still had one testicle, but the testicle had never come down, being embedded in the belly—Snip had, in effect, one ball left after his castration.
He was sterile, however, and it didn't do him any good. Snip would get horny, though, when mares were in estrus. At such times Snip had a mean disposition. He was called Snip because he had a white snip on his muzzle. If a white spot was in the middle of a horse's head it was called a star, and if it was a long, skinny white line on his face it was called a race. If the white stripe down the face was a wide one it was called a blaze.
"Suppose," a kid named Hammond asked, "a horse happened to have a star, a race, and a snip? What would you call that?"
Hammond was a slight kid with glasses, who came from Santa Barbara. Corporal Royale looked at him for a long time, as if he were trying to memorize Hammond's face.
"Then the horse would have a star, a race, and a snip. But he couldn't have a race and a blaze at the same time."
(Corporal Royale, I thought, didn't underst
and Hammond's question.)
Corporal Royale pointed out that white markings on the legs were called stockings: quarter stocking, half stocking, and full stocking, depending upon how high the stocking came on the leg. Horses with large white spots scattered here and there on their bodies were called paints—paints were rare in the cavalry—and closely mixed colors like black-and-white were called blues, and mixed colors like bay-and-white were called strawberries. But basically a horse was black, brown, gray, or bay. The color of a horse's muzzle determined its official color, regardless of its other markings. That was because horses often changed body color between winter and summer, except for their muzzles, which remained the same.
"Suppose," Hammond asked, "a horse's muzzle also changed color? Would you have to change the horse's official color all over again?"
"A horse's muzzle," Corporal Royale said slowly, "always remains the same."
Corporal Royale named the parts of the head, beginning with the bump between the ears, which was called a poll. He explained that the manes were roached, being clipped every six or seven weeks. A roached horse was easier to groom and the horse felt better without a mane. He told us about the withers, where the leading edge of the saddle blanket was placed before saddling, and told us that the height of a horse was measured from the ground to the top of the withers, not to the top of its head. The measurements were in hands, and each hand was about four inches. So old Snip here was fourteen hands high, the width of fourteen palms.
"Why don't they measure the horse in feet and inches?" Hammond asked.
"Because," Corporal Royale said, "they're measured in hands."
Behind the back, or saddle, were the kidneys. One other thing we had to remember was that when we were sitting in the saddle and the horse was urinating, we should sit forward to make it easier for the animal to piss. Also, when in the saddle, a man shouldn't put his hand back and lean on the kidneys because the horse would buck. Then there was the croup, the tail (also clipped on each side), and the dock. Never call a dock an asshole because it was a clock. The dock was the last thing wiped when the horse was groomed because it got very dusty.
Corporal Royale reached under Snip and pulled out his sheath. The horse's cock was called a sheath, and he never wanted to hear anyone call it a cock, a dick, or a penis. It was always called a sheath. Snip's black sheath was about two and a half feet long, scaly and stinky. It smelled so rotten when Corporal Royale pulled it out that we all stepped back involuntarily. Parker even took out his handkerchief and held it to his nose.
"Snip's sheath needs washing," Corporal Royale said. "We usually wash the sheaths once or twice a year, using warm soapy water. And we also have to reach up into the urethra and fish out the button. The button is what we call the chunk of waxy substance about the size of a marble or a little bigger that builds up in there. It has to be fished out with a finger. The button, if it's allowed to remain, will make it difficult for the horse to urinate, so it has to be removed at least once a year.
"The stable sergeant's going to assign your horses now, so while he does that, it might be a good idea for you, Hammond, to get a feed pan full of hot water. Get some soap and a sponge, and wash Snip's sheath. Well, Hammond, what are you waiting for‘?"
"Yes, sir," Hammond said.
" ‘Yes, Corporal.' I'm not an officer, so I'm not entitled to a ‘sir.' Get moving. And when you're finished, tell me, and I'll inspect the sheath. I also want to see that button when you get it, understand?"
"Yes, Corporal. " Hammond's face, already pale, turned as white as toilet paper.
We went into the corral to get our assigned horses as the stable sergeant pointed them out to us, and Hammond went to work on Snip's sheath.
For the next ninety days no one, including Hammond, ever asked Corporal Royale another question.
TWENTY-THREE
IF YOU HAVE THE TIME, AND THE CAVALRY HAS ALL the time in the world, there's no better way to leam how to ride a horse than the cavalry way. Horses are big, and they frighten men who don't know anything about them. The first thing a man has to overcome is his basic, if unadmitted, fear of horses. We were all assigned to gentle horses, well-trained trooper's mounts, and most of them were at least twelve years old. Each horse had its own personality and peculiar ways, and these had to be learned. A man could get hurt very easily if he wasn't careful. A horse would bite, and a horse bite is painful because the horse won't open his mouth after biting down on you. He just clamps down, pulls his head back, and then his teeth slide off eventually. The result is a cruel and painful pinch;
If your foot gets in the way, he will inadvertently step on it; and he will not get off your foot until you push him off balance. Horses, as Corporal Royale reminded us often, are incredibly dumb animals, with brains about the size of a walnut, and although they can be conditioned to respond to a certain set of signals—e. g., a right leading rein, a left bearing rein, and a firm right legion the girth will make him turn right—he doesn't know why he does it, or why you made him do it, but he will keep turning in the circle until you give him a new set of signals he has been conditioned to—but enough of all that.
During our first week we just used blankets and surcingles (to keep the blanket in place), bridles with sname bits, and single reins. Getting up on a horse without a stirrup is difficult; and learning to keep your reins short at all times isn't easy either. On the first morning, on our way to the fenced-in riding ring on the upper parade ground, and riding at a walk, with our legs dangling, Hammond let his reins get too loose. His horse, Lefty, got the bit between his teeth, turned left, and galloped back to the stables. Hammond fell off long before Lefty reached the stables, and then he had to get the horse and lead him back to the riding ring.
"That's why he's called Lefty," Corporal Royale explained. "He's stable-bound, and if you give him the chance, he'll always turn left before he gallops back to the stables."
Hammond wasn't hurt—just a few scratches on his face—but he kept his reins short after that, as did we all. When one man was growled at for doing something wrong, we all learned not to make the same kind of mistake ourselves. There was some security in training by platoon, because you weren't chewed out as much as if you were getting individual instructions.
In the ring, on that first day, we had to learn how to vault onto the horse's back from behind. Bourbon, a quiet bourbon-colored horse, was used for this purpose. One man held his head and we took turns running from behind, placing both hands on the croup, and trying to leap up onto his back. This was harder to do than it looked when Corporal Royale demonstrated it. It was a long way up there, and you had to land on either the croup or the back and avoid landing on the kidneys. If you got it into your head that he might kick backwards as you reached him, you wouldn't be able to vault onto his back because you would hesitate just long enough to muff it. Before the morning ended, all of us had managed to do it several
times except Shimer. Shimer, at five seven, was a little short, and he was frightened, with his legs and hands shaking before he made his runs.
"Don't worry, Shirner," Corporal Royale told him, not unkindly, "you've got ninety days to learn how to do it. And if you can't make it by then, Sergeant Brasely will transfer you to the infantry."
We spent the first week at a walk and at a slow trot riding in a circle. The purpose was to learn balance and stretch your legs. We all became sore and raw between the legs, but I'm sure my legs were stretched at least an inch by the end of the week. We also spent a lot of time grooming our horses and having them inspected by Corporal Royale. We had to pick up their feet and clean them, but the horses responded nicely to signals, so no one had any trouble.
My horse, Chesty, had ear warts, and ear warts are very painful to a horse. I had to learn how to bridle him without touching his ears. I did this by unlatching the left cheek strap. I slipped the bit into his mouth and pulled the head strap over his head without touching his ears. I then retightened the cheek strap and didn't have to
touch his ears. This was important to remember, because if Chesty's ears were touched accidentally, he would strike at you with both front feet. This was scary; a striking horse can split a man's head open.
I was a little disappointed at first when Corporal Royale told us that our horses didn't know who we were, that men and women were exactly the same to a horse, and that if you rode a horse every day for five years he still wouldn't know you from Adam's house cat. He had no way of telling one person from another. Unlike a dog, the horse couldn't smell you, and except for the difference in weight, he couldn't even recognize the difference between a man and a woman rider. He could respond to a tone of voice, but not to words. As long as he got the same set of signals, he would react as he had been conditioned. Some of the guys in our platoon didn't believe all this about their horses, but I did. I I didn't like Chesty any less because he didn't know me.
On occasion I gave Chesty a handful of oats or an apple core, but I considered the animal's studied indifference to me as a positive. Who in the hell would want a personal relationship with a horse?
***
WE SPENT ABOUT FOUR HOURS EACH MORNING WITH THE horses, which included riding, grooming, and cleaning equipment. Riding every day explained why there were so few fat men in the cavalry. Except for a few dismounted jobs, like the supply sergeant, dining room orderly, and cooks, everyone else in the troop rode about three hours a day. A man could eat all he wanted, but daily riding kept his weight down to trim.
We spent the afternoons learning the parts, and how to field-strip our rifles and pistols. We also practiced dismounted drill in the afternoons, studied cavalry tactics, map reading, and military courtesy, and memorized our General Orders (which I knew already). One afternoon
Something About a Soldier - Charles Willeford Page 21