Last Man Out by Jr. James E. Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

at 1st Division headquarters that I had, in fact, been assigned to Pete’s battalion, and by mid-morning I was checking in with battalionSgt. Maj. William (Bill) G. Bainbridge. Friendly but firm, his look clearly said, “Second lieutenants do not outrank me, so mind your manners.” Respectfully, I asked him for a platoon beside Pete. The sergeant major looked at me for a long moment, shrugged, nodded his head yes, and within minutes I was walking down to Company A, 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade, 1st Infantry Division—Capt. John (Jack) E. Woolley, Commanding.
    The buildings in the company area were built during World War II. Four barracks, two stories each, on the right of the company street, orderly room and mess hall on the left. An old oak tree provided shade for the orderly room. Woolley was behind his desk when I walked into his office and saluted. He greeted me warmly and said that I had the 3d Platoon, Peterson had the 4th, Joseph L. Duckett the 1st, and Ray A. Ernst the 2d.
    At sunrise the following morning I stood under the oak tree and smoked as the men fell out for reveille. Captain Woolley, tall and tan, was already on the scene. At breakfast, Pete pointed out some of the men in my platoon—they looked sloppy, undisciplined. My platoon sergeant was an old World War II veteran who was sleepwalking, according to Pete, and rarely spent time with the platoon. Pete thought that, in all, there were only about a dozen sick, lame, or lazy men in my platoon. All the able-bodied soldiers had already been pulled out for the 2d Brigade. Not much of a first command, I thought, disappointed.
    I met the other platoon leaders over breakfast. Duckett was a large black second lieutenant from Philadelphia who had driven a cab to pay his college tuition. He was quiet but not shy, and had a toughness to his manner that was unfamiliar to me. Ray Ernst was a small, deliberate South Dakotan. He was, surprisingly, a natural companion to Duckett. They just went together, like a longtime married couple.
    Captain Woolley joined us at the head of the table and easily, naturally, assumed the leader role. He expected deference to his rank and position, but he listened when we spoke and had a reassuring confidence about himself. A friendly, articulate man who led through the strength of his personality, I immediately felt privileged to be under his command.
    After breakfast, as I walked down to the 3d Platoon’s barracks, I went over my introduction speech. I had added, since seeing some of my men at breakfast, that I did not tolerate sloppy attitudes and expected close attention to military deportment. We faced the prospect of imminent deployment to a theater of war; beginning this morning we were going to shape up.
    I took a deep breath on the barracks steps. Another benchmark in my life, I thought, as I went in to “meet my men.” Tough but fair was the image I wanted. I walked in with a stern expression on my face.
    Loud music coming from a radio in the latrine competed with another radio on another station to the rear of the bay area. Nine men were lounging around. A few turned and gazed disinterestedly at me. A fat private got off a bunk to my right and called attention, but it produced little response from the others. One soldier lying on a bunk with the mattress folded back closed his eyes and made snoring sounds. Another, cigarette dangling from his hand, continued to lean on a broom. A Latino wearing a towel and combing his hair came out of the latrine, looked at me and then around at the other men.
    “My name is Lieutenant Parker,” I began, “your new platoon leader.”
    “Who’s this guy?” asked the Latino.
    “Shut up, everybody,” from the fat guy.
    I turned to him. “You want to wake that guy up down there and go turn off those radios?”
    He walked away, shaking the snorer first, then headed to the radio at the rear. I heard someone say, “Touch my radio and I cut your fat ass.”
    The