Looking back, my military service is a collection of fond memories, unexpected detours, and one very specific silver-plated tray. It technically started in college at the Pratt Institute. I joined the ROTC for four years, and during the last two, the Army enlisted us and even gave us a small monthly stipend.
After my junior year, I was shipped off to a summer camp for 2 weeks with cadets from all over the country. It wasn’t quite as rigorous as enlisted Basic Training, but the Army instructors certainly enjoyed their hobby of pushing future officers to their absolute physical limits.
I survived, and at our final formation, I was actually called out of ranks to receive the Superior Cadet Award for my company. The prize? An engraved silver-plated tray that sits in my house to this day.
The Fork in the Road
Before graduation, the Army offered me a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Regular Army. This was the serious career track with an indefinite commitment. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a “lifer,” so I politely declined and took a Reserve Army commission instead, which only required a four-year commitment.
There was a slight hiccup at the end of my senior year involving being short two credits for graduation (a long story for another time), but I received an Honorable Discharge from ROTC on September 15, 1969, and officially pinned on my “butter bars” as a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Armor Branch.
Next stop: Fort Knox, Kentucky.
The 52-Ton Portable Radio
I reported to the U.S. Army Armor School in October 1969. The nine-week training on M60 tanks is a bit of a blur, but I remember the “Big Three” courses: Communications, Automotive, and Gunnery.
Every instructor claimed their subject was the most critical. But let’s be honest—the Gunnery instructors won that argument. As they liked to remind us: “Without gunnery, you are just driving a 52-ton portable radio.” Ha ha.
I must have paid attention because I graduated on the Commandant’s List, placing me among the top officers in the class. I was even selected for an additional course on the latest high-speed light armored vehicle. I was on a roll.
The “Deal” of a Lifetime
It was 1969. The Vietnam War was ongoing. Just before graduation, the Army offered us fresh officers a deal: Sign a “Vol-Indef” (Voluntary Indefinite) contract, and you can pick your first duty assignment for 18 months.
The choice was essentially: Vietnam or… literally anywhere else?
I’ve never made a decision faster. I chose Germany.
Deutschland and the Mortar Surprise
I arrived in Erlangen, Germany, in February 1970, reporting to the 1st Battalion, 35th Armored Regiment, 4th Armored Division. I walked in expecting to command a tank platoon. Instead, they handed me the Mortar Platoon.
I was stunned. I had zero training on the 4.2″ (“four-deuce”) mortar.
So, I did what any good leader does: I let my subordinates teach me. My “tutor” was a buck Sergeant (my forward observer). It was a crash course in humility. I was the “leader,” but they were the experts. It taught me a massive lesson: The best leaders are the ones willing to learn from the people they lead.
(Note: Amidst all this military shuffling, life happened. In March 1971, my eldest son, Peter, was born in Nuremberg Army Hospital!)
The “Second Scariest Thing”
By 1971, the Army was reorganizing. The 4th and 1st Armored Divisions were combined. My mortar platoon was mothballed, and I was moved to a cushy desk job as an assistant to the Brigade Commander. That lasted until the division decided, “Hey, let’s bring the mortars back!”
They assigned a new Lieutenant to the reactivated platoon, but tragedy struck when his father fell ill, and he had to return to the U.S. suddenly. The platoon was leaderless and scheduled for a massive Army Proficiency Test.
The Army looked at me—the guy at the desk who used to run mortars—and said, “You’re up.”
We loaded Jeeps and five modified armored personnel carriers, including one FDC (Fire Control Center) and four motorized mortars onto flatbed rail cars and took a train to the test grounds. (Best sleep I ever got was on that train). Since I had an authorized copy of the test, I gathered the platoon in a barracks room and we… let’s call it “aggressively reviewed” every single question.
The test included night firing, which is undeniably cool. One gun fires an illumination round (a giant flare) over the target area, and the other three fire for effect.
The Scariest Thing on a range is an uncontrolled explosion.
The Second Scariest Thing is a misfire.
We place a 25-pound mortar round in the muzzle, and it slides down the tube. It’s supposed to hit the firing pin and fly out at 800 feet per second.
Thunk.
Silence.
The round was stuck. 25 pounds of high explosives, just hanging out in the tube. As the leader, it was my job to fix it. The procedure? Kick the tube as hard as you can to jar it loose.
I made the sign of the cross. I kicked it. Nothing. I kicked it again. I started sweating bullets. Still nothing.
The next theoretical step was much more dangerous. With the help of my team, we had to gently lift the bottom of the mortar tube—which weighs about 100 pounds—high enough so gravity would slide the explosive round back out the top.
You can imagine the sound of metal-on-metal scraping as we lifted the tube. I was sweating profusely, my hands hovering over the muzzle, preparing to “collar” the live round as it peeked out. I successfully snatched the baby out of the tube, and the drama was over.
I remember silently cursing the Safety Officer, thinking, “That idiot didn’t check the round properly!”
Decades later, I realized the truth: The misfire was part of the test. The Safety Officer wasn’t an idiot; I was the one being tested. (We passed, by the way).
You Can’t Win Them All
We passed the mortar test, but my luck ran out later. I was assigned as Executive Officer (XO) of Company C. At the annual Tank Commanders’ Qualifying Course, a Commander was unavailable, and I had to step in.
I hadn’t been in Armor School for two years. I hadn’t trained with this crew. I was dropped into the tank cold, and frankly, we failed. I felt terrible for the team, but it was a reminder that you can’t fake proficiency in a 52-ton machine.
Tanks, Planes, and Broken Toes
I eventually made Captain and braced myself for my next assignment. I assumed I’d go stateside. Instead, the Army said: “Surprise! You’re going to Korea.”
Getting there was an odyssey. There were no direct military flights. I flew from New Jersey to California… zig-zagging across the US on a hospital air transport. From California, we stopped in Hawaii and Guam before finally landing in Seoul.
I was assigned to Camp Casey as the S1 (Personnel) Officer for the 1st Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division. It was familiar territory—paperwork and correspondence. But I did get out a bit.
- The DMZ: I toured the border and visited the peace talk Quonset hut. I even stepped to the North side of the table for a photo op. Technically, I was in North Korea for about 15 seconds.
- Tae Kwon Do: I trained three times a day. This ended after two incidents. First, my master kicked me in the chest, knocking me out cold. (When I woke up, I politely agreed he had scored the points). Second, he blocked my kick and broke my big toe. That was the end of my fighting career, but I did retire as a Green Belt.
- Cards: When I wasn’t breaking bones, I was playing Pinochle or Bridge from Saturday noon until Sunday night.
The Homestretch
In 1973, the U.S. was withdrawing from Vietnam and reducing its forces. Despite my “Indefinite” contract, I was released from service early because—ironically—I still lacked that college degree (remember those two missing credits?).
I was discharged on September 8, 1973, after serving 3 years, 11 months, and 23 days of active duty (about four months of that in Korea), followed by two years in the reserves. I received an Army Commendation Medal and an Honorable Discharge.
The Bottom Line:
I was never in a combat zone. I never shot at anyone, and no one ever shot at me. THANK GOD.
I still wear a POW bracelet to this day. It serves as a constant reminder: Someone else saved my butt.
