One of the last training exercises in Basic Training was probably the most exciting: actually being shot at with live ammunition!
We were taken to a huge range after dark, in full gear with our rifles. My whole company was directed to a large cement dugout where we peered onto the range bathed in moonlight. Scattered throughout the foreboding field were obstacles, and bunkers made of sandbags. The sergeants told us to keep away from the bunkers if we knew what was good for us. At the far end of the field were two .50 caliber machine guns pointed toward us. They were mounted on tripods and would be swiveling, firing horizontally, only three feet off the ground. Our objective was to crawl on our bellies for 100 yards without getting shot. Our reward: a cup of hot chocolate.
We entered the field squad-by-squad, platoon-by-platoon. The machine guns began laying down a steady stream of .50 Caliber bullets, and if one stood up, he would be instantly cut in two. The incessant whistling rounds were bad enough, but behind the sandbag bunkers were charges of TNT that exploded every now and then. The shock waves were frightening. At first it was a little unnerving, but in a few moments I relaxed and imagined myself – single handed – attacking a Nazi machine gun nest, and saving my entire battalion; and then receiving the Medal of Honor from Ike Eisenhower. (Right.)
Midway on the course, I paused and rolled over on my back. I rested on my backpack, positioning me even closer to the deadly spray of machine gun fire. Every fifth bullet was a tracer round and appeared as long lines of yellow light emanating from the barrels of the guns, zinging to the rear. I watched this awesome display of firepower under the twinkling stars and a half-moon, while enduring the constant rat-a-tat blasts of the weaponry, and the terrible explosions going off only a few yards away. It was magnificent!
Graduation was at hand and we all readied ourselves for the mass exodus from Fort Lewis, Washington. I was given a stripe, and proudly sewed it on my dress greens. I had successfully completed boot camp and felt that I had really accomplished something. Joining the Army during wartime might have seemed like a stupid idea, but if it works, it isn’t stupid. I received my orders for Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Ord, California, and had booked a flight to Dallas.
I would be home for Christmas!
The Christmas of 1969 was the happiest in recent memory. My family greeted me with love and affection, and my dad, Spike, was beaming with pride. Grandpa and Grandma Duncan had made the trip down from Pennsylvania and were pleased to see me in uniform.
I imagined that I was Grandma’s little Christian soldier actually marching off to war. My brother Ross, home from military school, was also in dress uniform, and together we made an unlikely pair, posing as soldiers, both of us desperately trying to improve our lot in life. Our little brother, Bob had let his blond hair grow out and was resplendent, dressed in the height of hippie fashion. Of course, a haircut was a regular topic, but he held his ground firmly.
Spike and Marilyn were still striving for that unattainable image of Ozzie and Harriet. At this point in time, it was almost believable, and while we boys were not My Three Sons, at least we were giving it a shot.
In Big D, I kept away from the shady elements that were lurking behind every corner, and passed my time jogging, fraternizing with family, and enjoying this wonderful Yuletide bliss. Spike had set up the old Lionel trains under a glorious tree, and the stockings were hung, and carols were sung (just like the old days!) We all attended midnight service at North Minster Presbyterian Church where Mom and Dad showed great pride in their three sons.
The Christmas spirit and the extraordinary family bonding made me wax nostalgic. I traveled back to the Fifties when Christmases were magical and dreams came true — a time before the invention of the term ‘dysfunctional family.’ The spirit of Christmas would inebriate my father; every year he went completely ape-shit, right on schedule. Down in the basement, late at night, he would work secretly on the latest train layouts, and decorations.
On Christmas Eve we kids were ordered up to bed where together we’d fall asleep with sugarplums dancing in our heads. Our neighbors would join our parents in the living room, enjoying spiked eggnog, watching Spike set up the trains. The tree was erected over the train set-up and carefully decorated; and all the while, Mother would softly play the baby grand, her beautiful voice warbling “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
Every time I think back on those joyful holidays, her sweet voice echoes in my mind: “Glory to the newborn King!”
Early Christmas morning, we boys would awake and rouse our parents. Dad would reluctantly get up and drag himself downstairs, and turn on the tree lights, music and train set. We would run downstairs, with Mother in hot pursuit, and on entering the living room, we were astounded at the sight. Dad had magically transformed the room into an unbelievable North Pole fantasy land. Santa had come! I’ve never met anyone who had experienced this tradition quite so fully; one evening it was a normal living room, and the next morning it was a parlor festooned with stuffed stockings, and brightly wrapped presents strewn about.
Earlier, on some of those lovely Christmas Eves in the Fifties, mother and I would sit at the frosty window, trying to find the star of Bethlehem in those jingle bell skies, and she’d swear that she had just heard reindeer on the roof! Then she’d dial the number that connected us to the North Pole, and we would talk to Santa himself.
Uncle Don was a good Santa on the phone, but Spike had actually transformed himself into the jolly old elf. Besides spreading Christmas cheer to his extended family, and all around our little town, he was an active volunteer and performed many acts of kindness to complete strangers throughout the year. I remember him in Dallas, running up the alley after the garbage truck, with envelopes full of cash for the garbage-men.
My father was a good Christian man and put his faith into practice, never forgetting the true meaning of the holy day: Peace on earth, good will toward men.
And in those times of insecurity and doubt, when we boys had forgotten that our father really loved us, we only had to think of Christmas time, when the real Santa Claus appeared. Because of my loving father, the warm, fuzzy days of Christmas past are the most cherished memories of my life – period!
And now I was about to begin another chapter of my life. Boot camp had given me a great deal of confidence in myself, and I looked forward to the challenges that were ahead…
…but I would enter this new era with great trepidation. And rightfully so.
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.