Jack was getting used to the Army. Why not? He had no other choice. He began liking to jump so much, he began to ask to jump when other units could not fill the jump manifests. However when the time came for a full equipment jump, no one wanted to jump with the dreaded GP or Griswold bag.

 The bag was used to put in items that could not be strapped on with the normal ‘chute. When a private wasn't available to go with the bag, Sfc Haynes ordered Cpl. Hammond to carry their mortar in the bag and jump into the DZ with it. Admittedly the bag became trickier as it became heavier. The trick was to release both "D" ring catches at exactly the same exact instant. Anything else and the contraption would bind and you'd have to land with it.

This exercise was a big one! Involving thousands of troops from different units. Anybody with equipment such as a Griswold bag or large radio is put at the head of the "stick". After all arrangements, they stood around the sand table to critique the plans for jumping and assembling to "fight" the enemy. Hammond jumped, didn't release properly and landed with the bag. Confused, dazed and bewildered, Walter Cephus Hammond, proceded as planned to the assembly area to join with the rest of them. All of the men in Weapons Platoon were patiently waiting for their mortar when the Corporal showed up. Only one thing was missing, the 60mm mortar!

Totally embarrassed when Haynes, as congenial as humanly possible, asked where was the weapon. Hammond, whose IQ was only points above the number of stripes on his sleeve, swallowed again and again, then replied meekly. "on the drop zone, Sergeant". If Haynes had been a violent or less tolerant person he would have kicked Walter right in the ass.

Walter's demeanor improved slightly after these two embarrassing events. Not great, just better. On one big jump he almost had a fatal accident. The over-sized parachute had good points and bad. The lessened opening shock was great but the greater size of the chute made slipping (steering) during descent and collapsing once on the ground a big problem. As Jack neared the ground, his body was on an angle and the side of his face rattled inside the steel helmet. Jack's ears rung for weeks and his jaw popped for years after this jump. When he tried to run into the canopy to collapse the parachute, the wind rose and knocked him off his feet. At first he relaxed and went along for the ride.

After a half-mile or so it began to get serious as parts of his web equipment, after hitting the "quick release" were left strewn along the path of the inflated runaway chute. Nobody could come to his rescue as they were having problems of their own. When the risers snagged on a tree stump, Jack realized the danger he was in. The massive 36 feet of nylon and rayon and the 30+ knots of wind tightened the straps around his throat. The veins in his neck were like the steel cables on bicycle brakes. Jack struggled to free his hand. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the bayonet in his grip. This blade wasn't at all sharp, but it was going to have to work. With his last gasp the blade cut through, freeing one riser. This was enough to let him get some fresh air to his burning lungs. The furious wind had settled for a moment. He arose quickly and began to beat down the chute and pile stone and limbs on its edges.

Finding the way back was easy, just follow the gouged out path.

Breathing normally now, he traced the path his backpack had gouged into the earth. His canteen, the last item to be ripped from his belt, quenched and somewhat cooled his parched throat. He rested a moment, glad to be alive. The carbine, pistol and sundry items were found along the path. He looked skyward and thanked his God for allowing him another day! He walked slowly to the assembly area to meet with his buddies and tell his friends of his good fortune.

Now with fifty-five dollars jump pay added to his monthly pay Jack was making ninety-five dollars a month. Starched uniform, the official Ft.Bragg uniform required about eight of them to stay sharp. Post Quartermaster, the army's laundry, had some good points and bad. Cost was negligible but the time required to get things back, less starch used and stuff more easily lost. The private cleaners did a great job quickly, but at substantial cost. The clothes were like boards, sometimes would have to pry apart. If care was shown, they might squeeze two days wear in. Affordability here is a key factor.

Many men did their own laundry at post laundries or some barracks had machines and dryers. These guys would be clean but without that razor edge that looked so good. In the barracks Kurt Janke, Petr Muller and Walter Cephus Hammond, corporals, made sure the displays along side our lockers were crisp, clean and arrow-straight. It was common practice, in order to keep them straight, put a rod, actually a straightened clothes hanger, through all the patches on the shirts and jackets.

Both Janke and Muller were legs and German nationals. Somebody said that upon discharge they automatically became citizens. Kurt, typically Aryan, brusque soldiering son of a bitch, Petr more American, much nicer guy. And then there was Hammond. Kurt Janke was bad enough but if Hammond had been my Squad Leader I would have no doubt spent time in the Stockade. When Kurt came down on someone, it came strictly from a professional, a person probably born to become a mercenary. Never really liking it Jack, understood his motives.

Walter C. on the other hand was vindictive, hateful, malicious and spiteful. More adjectives apply but we'll stop here. Hammond, not at all bright, was the black equivalent of the Noncommissioned officers mentioned earlier. Many times Walter, after shining his own shoes (he could put a glass finish on them) and preparing his own gear would exit his room for the sole purpose of f-----g with his men. They would get so mad they would begin to tremble to keep from pounding Hammond. Augusta, Georgia was the home of Corporal W.C. Hammond, one of the most sadistic pricks Jack has ever known. Together all of them wanted to engrave these words on his epitaph. Hammond would pull out the rods that we used and hurl rods and uniforms off the racks and on the beds. He made them polish their shoes again and again.

Walter had a compulsion for sex, but it was not with girls. One of the medics that had slipped through the rectal exam was Walter's sweety. Hammond claimed that their relationship was limited to oral sex but who can say what goes on behind closed doors? Hammond had never been caught dirty despite the short-arm inspections. In these checks we would be roused in mid morning and required to skin back their Johnsons and knead or milk them. Any ooze would be applied to a glass slide and tested. The corporal slept in a room and was not subjected to this embarassment.

They never turned him in despite their hatred for him. Maybe they felt that at any given moment he might not test negative. Hammond was a loan shark. At fifty-per-cent interest, he made a lot of money loaning to guys who didn't manage money well. A five- dollar loan cost $7.50 at payday and Walter kept good records. This is how Walter financed his penicillin shots. He had the clap so many times he would tell them and claim the doctor had injected him with water. How could he keep getting infected with the same faggot time and time again? Yet he maintained his only oral sex lie. He never mentioned a girl.

One fellow from Hammond's own home state had a particular dislike for him. Parker was a human fire hydrant. At about 5'5", 200 lbs. David was a formidable foe. The results were evident. "I got my education out behind the mound" was a theme sang by many of them as a joke from being asked by cadre as a challenge. A sergeant would remove his shirt and invite a subordinate to go behind the mound used in conjunction with the 34 foot towers. Walter made a massive misjudgement when he either invited or accepted an invite.

When Jack later saw his face, the pink showed through and looked as if it had been burned. Hammond fashioned himself as a boxer, but David had bowled him over and pummeled the hated black face into raw burger. Walter, at first looked pretty as he floated and teased Parker with light jabs. David had never met anyone with this deft boxing ability and his inexperience showed him as an awkward oaf. Parker kept advancing and was being tattoed by the rapier-like thrusts of Hammonds fast hands. Frustration grew into impatience, at first unmoved by the light taps, they now hit heavier as Hammond grew confident in his ability to hit Parkman at will.

Dave went into a football kind of stance and Hammond grinned, not knowing what to expect next. Parker's body caught Walter across the chest and immediately took away his breath. The artful dodger who moments earlier was gingerly tapping a beat on David's nose, now sensed anxiety as life-giving oxygen eluded him. With an angry antagonist straddled across his chest and air already at a premium, Hammond began to feel defeat. With the slow, almost methodical timing of a scolding parent, David struck blow after blow. "Are you going to stop fucking with me". No answer. "Will you leave people alone" Each blow accompanying a question. Finally David realized there was not going to be any response as Hammond was in dreamland. No one came to Walter's rescue. Hammond had met his Waterloo!

In stark contrast to pricks like Hammond, Staff Sgt.Hunt was a honest, caring man. One of the few who didn't resort to the demeaning acts of most sergeants. Jack was on guard duty, dreaming perhaps of being home. It was cold as hell and Jack had wedged himself between the base of two trees. The place was picked so that any person approaching would have to first reveal himself. Sgt.Hunt, born in North Carolina's foothills was of mixed heritage. Handsome, well-spoken and with the characteristics of both the native-American and African-American, he projected a fine figure. He was Jack's section leader.

This night maybe is was his indiginous abilities that permitted him to get so close to Jack. Sleeping on guard wasn't something that Jack did normally, so maybe that's why the sergeant did not come down hard on Jack. When Jack heard the familiar opening and closing sound of his carbine, he immediately knew something was amiss!

Even without feeling around he knew somebody had his weapon. In the cool crispness of the night air, the clack-clack was easily distinguishable. The only thing Hunt said to Jack was, "You know better". Jack realized he could have been severely punished, as sleeping on guard is a serious offence. Nothing more was ever said so imagine how badly Jack felt later when he almost killed the Sarge. Jack was an accomplished gunner, as good as any. But a momentary lapse of memory could have been fatal to Sgt. Hunt. Being rated by an officer in the background, Jack as gunner received a large deflection movement while firing the mortar.

Nervous about possibly wasting too much time setting up the new position, and not remmbering the correct procedure, he had the Assistant move the aiming stakes by an approximate value. The radio crackled "Fire" and the assistant dropped a round down the tube. "Cease fire, Cease fire," the stressed and urgent call came loud and clear. A "foward observer" knows and accepts the risks associated with the job. To have explosive schrapnel landing near is an acceptable risk, but to have these pieces of steel on top of you is not exactly what the doctor ordered. Jack knew almost immediately he'd goofed. In his haste to impress the officer, Jack had bypassed the normal rules. He was overjoyed he hadn't hurt anyone, especially his Sgt.James A. Hunt.

All the companies in the 82nd Airborne Division kept their barracks in tip-top shape. Inspections were held and the officers would check even the out of the way areas. One day in preparation for the inspection, two SFCs from two different platoons fought over use of the buffing machine. Going home was the highlight of these jerks' day. They, for the most part lived off post and couldn't wait to go home at the end of the day.

Sfc. Dawkins, Haynes underling was today in charge of cleaning and preparing the barracks. When the buffer wasn't delivered on time, he sent Jack and Ryan to get the machine. When they returned to the barracks empty-handed, Dawkins was irate. His nostrils flared, he turned crimson and returned with Jack and Ryan to obtain the buffer.

Sfc.Mercer, normally a good old boy and friend of Dawkins was equally steadfast. He wasn't going to give up the machine until his people were finished with it! They stood around and watched as these Non-commissioned officers duked it out. They took their obligatory John L. Sullivan stances and began to gouge, bite, kick and spit at each other. These good buddies, who during off hours, their wives were probably god-parents to each others kids. All of them enjoyed watching these ass-holes wallowing around on the freshly buffed floors. Both of these guys were dummies, employed as sergeants by the U.S. Army. If they had been  civilians they would have been farmers.