CRTC, Ft. Riley, Kansas 1941

Troop B Second Training Squadron, 1st Training Regiment

 

One of these days I’d like to write a second book, this time, about a simple story of the little guy in World War II and what he saw.  Stories of the big shots like Patton, Eisenhower, and Bradley bore me.  They get plenty of coverage, but the little guy, like my father, who did the heavy lifting, got oblivion.  Stephen Cherry’s story would be worth telling and certainly not because he was my father.  His story has all the makings of an Agatha Christie novel:  religious conflict, fear, danger, death, irony, and mystery set against a backdrop of global war.  The broader appeal lies in the fact that 10-12 million other ordinary people were sent through the same thing or worse.

 

It all began when Dad was chosen by Draft Board # 1 in West Plains, Missouri.  From there he was inducted in Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis on October 21, 1941 and sent to Ft. Riley, Kansas to the Cavalry Replacement Training Center or CRTC of the Second Cavalry Division.

 

Incidentally, even though the CRTC is cavalry, it generally parallels the order of battle of Army infantry units: the Second Cavalry Division consisting of four “provisional” regiments with two battalions (squadrons) per regiment and four companies (troops) of 220 men in each battalion.  Four platoons were in each company or troop. Thus, the photo of Troop B Second Training Squadron of the 1^st Training Regiment is basically a company photo commanded by Captain Jose A. Castillo.

 

The training of the draftees focused on three areas:  Weapons like the 30 Caliber machine gun, Garand rifle, and mortars; Horse; and Motor.  At one point he was the lead rider on an artillery caisson.  He remembered parades at Ft. Riley with 18,000 horses and how he hated the stable fire drills.  What determined his fate with the Mediterranean Base Section in Oran, North Africa and the Peninsular Base Section in Leghorn, Italy was his training with the new GMC 2 ½ ton trucks.

 

Dad was on the edge of his bunk on December 7, 1941 one day before graduation when he heard the newscast of the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Commanding General Donald A. Robinson in a letter in the CRTC graduation book expressed faith (in prophetic words) in the future of his graduates under “. . . any and all circumstances.”  Dad was temporarily retained as a member of CRTC.  In the photo he sent to Grandpa Ike in West Plains, Private Stephen Cherry wears the General HQ. Reserve Patch.

 

 

A Walk Along the Odense River

After leaving the busy part of Odense, I went for a long walk down the beautiful Odense River that leads to a Danish village of hundreds of years ago set aside for tourists and to preserve Danish heritage.  On my way, I had a rare moment of déjà vu as I walked past huge trees on Erik Bǿgh’s Footpath to the Fyn Village.  There was a certain overshadowing feeling against the backdrop of the river that made me stop. 

 

Later on, down the path, an old man pointed out to me some black squirrels that were playing in the trees.  They looked odd enough because they were black, but their ears were also tufted with dangling fur. The old man said that nowhere else in the world were there squirrels like this because they had been isolated on Fyn.  I never met a people more unpretentious as the Danes:  families with strollers, nude statues in the park, and a squirrel that locals brag about.

 

The lawns of the historic village and surrounding river banks were meticulously well kept with thousands of flowers in their wonderful September bloom.  There were small boats cruising the river including a tourist ferry that chugged by.  The Danes laid out their farm buildings next to one another against the winter wind and snow, but the fire danger of this tradition is too obvious for most Americans.  I was impressed at the complicated way the wood was stacked and the large tails of the sheep.  I saw an amphitheater and several old thatched buildings including a mill with huge creaking gears.  There was an old roofing tile factory with dirt floor where people could see how the Danes make the ceramic tile they use even today. 

 

There was also a Tivoli in the middle of this giant park, this time much smaller, of course, than the one in Copenhagen.  I soon discovered it by following the young people up the river bank and past a hole in the fence.  It was innocent enough until I saw Las Vegas and its one arm bandits. The picture shows at least ten slot machines. It would not be the last time I saw children gambling in Denmark. Is this America in a few years?  My next stop: Thisted near the North Sea.

 

JFK Assassination Coverage?

In sixty days Americans will commemorate the 50^th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  As Claudius would say, it is an opportunity for all the poisons to hatch out – perhaps the last chance where timing and public interest will be focused enough to ring the last bit of truth out of an historic tragedy.  All I see so far is fluff about LBJ, what he was doing 24 hours after the assassination and Thurston Clarke and his new book, JFK’s Last Hundred Days: Kennedy’s space program, Vietnam, and Test Ban Treaty rehashes.  If I see one more piece on Camelot, I think I’ll get sick.  Eighty million Baby Boomers deserve more.  Tell it like it is (was)!

 

Many Americans can’t believe the evil nature of man and his capacity to perpetrate evil on a grand scale.  Many deny the Holocaust and many can’t believe government officials would conspire to kill a president, much less have an institutional mega-complex like the American Media purposely distort, leave out, or manipulate the facts.  Surely authors like David S. Lifton, Best Evidence, and William Manchester will be shown a little respect as well as director Oliver Stone who produced the most critical of all assassination films, JFK.

 

If the Media is serious about covering the facts just one more time, I’d ask them to at least demand that all evidence about the assassination be released and forget national security; that‘s always the cover-up excuse.  I’d ask the Media to discuss the motives of probable conspirators including Lyndon Johnson.  Seven Days in May was not enough.  Television coverage should have Richard Trask’s photo of Robert MacNeil (That Day in Dallas) among a crowd that rush up to the spot where the front shooter took aim.  Show the bullet nick on the curb originating from that spot.  Above all, show the complete Zapruder film head shot without alteration.  Head snap back proves a front shooter.

 

You’d expect the most significant event in living memory, a coup d’état, would warrant at least the same amount of coverage as the March of Washington anniversary.  Perhaps, the Media doesn’t want to be reminded of their checkered past in covering up for the real culprits in exchange for the appropriation of the vote tabulation process.  It’s probable that any objective and critical look at the Kennedy assassination during its 50^th anniversary is doomed like the passing of Voyager out of the solar system; out of sight and out of mind.  Perhaps I’m wrong because it’s not in the Media’s interest to implicate itself with the truth.

The Days Before My Longest Day

Like Lt. Dan’s ancestors the Cherrys have served in nearly every war in American history: the Revolutionary War, War of 1812 at New Orleans, the Civil War, World War II, Vietnam, and Desert Storm.  The only exception was World War I.  Unlike Lt. Dan’s story, no one got killed, but that’s not the only reason why I joined the Marine Corps.  It was to be a calculated economic risk and an adventure not a job and at 26 I was running out of time.

 

That awful job I had in Kansas City was a dead ender; bad boss, no chance for advancement or improvement, and boring.  When I joined up in 1975 I was making the princely sum of $3.85 an hour in Materials Management with no chance of overtime, but the work was steady, had good benefits, and was first shift.  I worked on the theory of joining as a reserve with the possibility of transferring to another department with higher pay when I completed basic and MOS training.  I knew someone in Building Maintenance who had already joined the Green Berets at the ripe old age of 33 and he made it.

 

I’d been thinking about enlisting since late fall 1974.  My first choice of service was the Navy as a Naval Flight Officer, but after thorough eye tests I was rejected.  My second choice was joining the Marines as an officer, but the same results came back.  I was told somewhere along the way that entering Marine Corps officers don’t wear glasses, so I enlisted.  If there was Lasik surgery in those days, I would have been an officer.

 

AFEES, the Armed Forces Examination and Examination Service at Kansas City’s Union Station, had the best color brochures and the Marines had those dress blues.  I knew someone from college who said they were the reason why he joined.  Perhaps I exaggerate, but I did see the recruiter at AFEES and he suggested I sign up, of course, and take the entrance tests there.  I could visit my future duty station, Hq. Co. 24^th Marines, for an interview with the regimental commander until the test results came back.

 

Induction took about a week because of all those tests and I recall at least three separate oath takings.  “Now, are you sure you want to do this?” There was a big bunch of Hippies wearing high heels who went to the Army and a smaller group that went to the Air Force and Navy.  The remaining five or so of us went to the Marines.  I finally passed the eye test.  I remember the sound chamber which reminded me of the gas chamber in the pen at Jefferson City.  My personal opinion was that it was also a test for claustrophobia.  The red light exam was for Navy recruits only.  Walking like a duck eliminated a few people because they didn’t have basic leg strength.  When 50 of us lined up for the hernia test the doctor said, “You may think I enjoy this, but I assure you, I don’t!”

 

The written tests were designed not for intellectual ability, but to discover a recruit’s vocational aptitude.  The funny thing is that I was given the same tests again at MCRD, San Diego.  After about a week and passing all the tests and with papers in hand I joined several other inductees at the minivan parked outside AFEES for the trip to the airport.  It was the beginning of a long story familiar to millions of young Americans, but their stories are unknown because they seldom write about them.

Haying in the Ozarks

The drought of 2012 had its advantages.  Ponds went dry and the dozer operators had a field day in restoring old ponds.  Expensive repairs caused by leaking roofs were delayed.  Those with stock including horses and donkeys could not find enough hay with their normal suppliers, so I didn’t have much difficulty in selling mine. 

 

This year was a different story; the weather changed.  It was almost a perfect spring with lots of rain and long cool days.  At one point the hay reached to my front pockets and the yield was up 57% over last year.  There was no problem with weeds because cool season grasses like fescue and orchard grass outgrew them.  I don’t do second cuttings (yet) because the process is reversed in September – hay grows slower and weeds like Horse Nettle take over. 

 

Farm Economics 101 has taught me that farmers are big gamblers.  Who knew with perfect weather and large crops that my new customers would go back to their old suppliers?  As I waited and advertised more, the rains came again in July and the crop began its deterioration.  Some old timers might say, “Rain won’t hurt it that much.”  I disagree.  The strings rot and the bale sags and becomes difficult to handle.  More importantly, the nutritional value is lost in the bale’s first six to twelve inches. 

 

With no customers, I had to sell short at half price to get rid of the hay in the field.  The real farmers have Net Wrap, a sort of shrink wrap, and large pole barns to preserve their crop.  I was caught with my pants down - no storage.  Next year I may have to build a dedicated hay barn.  Two years ago I lost $5,000, last year only $3,000.  This year I broke even.  Added to the 2014 fertilizer bill in a few months will be my first spraying costs. 

 

I enjoy working on a farm, especially mowing hay.  I’m finding haying something I have to do to keep up the field and something I might eventually make a little money at to balance costs.  Working in the field is a part of my Ozark heritage.  It has its downside, but it certainly beats walking the malls in my retirement and dying from a heart attack in front of Macy’s.

Odense, Jewell of Denmark

Odense in 1977 had almost a perfect confluence of beauty, convenience, and domesticity.   Tourists usually know it for being the home of Hans Christian Andersen, but the city fathers couldn’t have done a better job of making them feel at home as soon as they step off the train.  Immediately you’re presented with the remarkable broad lawns and flowers of the King’s Garden.  That might not seem so rare, but after traveling so much in so many countries, I appreciated the change of scenery from the dreary rail yards and the other unpleasant sights and sounds of non-Scandinavian cites.  

 By the way of Google technology, Street Level, I’m assured that not much has changed in all the years except for the train station’s façade and concourses being made overly modern.  I remember the quaint hotel that I stayed in for a couple of days.  It’s now the Danshostel Odense, a four story building with a small elevator.  Unfortunately, new management has changed it to the Spartan looks of a youth hostel.  Then, I had my own room and a TV.  They even served me High Tea on silver a tray - something unexpected and memorable to this day: cookies, jams, desserts.  There were no tea bags and even the cone shaped strainer was silver.  I felt like the Joad family (Grapes of Wrath) entering the government work camp.

 

That’s not all.  Even the small cemetery across the street was remarkably beautiful even though it was overcrowded by American standards.  Of course, King’s Garden with its Odense Castle is the big attraction.  I had barely used my 35mm Minolta SRT 202 and had little idea on how to use it with all this eye candy. The telephoto lens was actually good at close ups, but I didn’t know enough about framing a picture in order to avoid shooting St. Albans church’s steeple on the horizontal.

 

As I wondered about the park I could not help noticing that there were actually people in it.  Most parks here in the United States seem to be places to be avoided or, at best, for reunions in reserved covered buildings.  In Odense families with children actually use the parks.  It was also refreshing to see people with blond and red hair after so many years of Dumb Blonde jokes and red hair taunting.  It was evident to me that racial cohesion produces a sort of calmness and domestic contentment even in a socialist state.  The following day I would see more of this fairy tale world with a long walk along the Odense River where I saw some weird squirrels.

Valley Star Publishing Logo

Another hurdle in the option to self-publish Journal of the Silent Majority is finished.  My Valley Star Publishing LLC needed a logo so I chose one dear to my heart and it related to an old Ozark school, Valley Star, founded in 1897.  My father went there in his youth with my Cherry aunts and uncles.  As a toddler Dad took me there one time when he was hired to do maintenance on the old building.  Believe it or not, it has been relocated and rehabbed at Cloud Nine Ranch west of West Plains, Mo.

 

LJS Graphics in Kansas City did a good job and tasking them to produce the logo was just another step in what many authors have to do to get their works published.  I’m finding out that the more I do myself or have done, the less dependency I have on the antiquated traditional publishing process. 

 

I wrote about it in a previous post, but I’ll expand on my thinking about the obstacles of publishing which new dissenting authors face.  Literary agents and traditional book publishers probably would not be receptive to my history revealing uncomfortable truths.  Perhaps 80% of literary agents list their genres as gay/lesbian, women’s issues/feminist, multicultural, ethnic, or gender related.  It would be counterproductive for them to jeopardize their client relationship with authors who hold different political views.  What would their comrades think? Traditional book publishing appears to be no different.  A quick glance at Writer’s Market suggests that serious thinking men are as rare as chicken’s teeth: Monster Trucks, Turkey Hunting, Playboy, Sports, and Hot Rods. One would get the impression that half the population does not read or think.  They are wrong.

 

It is sufficient to say I won’t rule out the traditional avenue for publishing Journal of the Silent Majority, but I’m comforted in what René Descartes said in Discourse on Method:  “. . . when it is beyond our power to discern the opinions which carry most truth, we should follow the most probable . . . .”  Self-publishing appear to be more probable every day.

 

The question of biased editing also rears its ugly head.  I ran into that in my second edit attempt:  “That surely didn’t happen.”  “You can’t say that.”  “You’re a racist if you say that or use that word.” There’s the problem in a nut shell for revisionist historians in our particular age. It’s the velvet hammer – conform to our way of thinking or don’t get published.  Descartes alluded to a related predicament: “. . . there is very often less perfection in works composed of several portions, and carried out by the hands of various masters, than in those on which one individual alone has worked.”  The compromises after editing sometimes causes the author to give up, but I’m comforted by the admonition of philosopher Larry the Cable Guy; “Get’er Done!”