THIS IS AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CW4 WILLIAM J AUELL

THIS IS AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CW4 WILLIAM J AUELL. IT WAS FURNISHED TO THE NIKE HISTORICAL SOCIETY BY HIS SON MICHAEL. THIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY SPANS CW4 AUELL’S MILITARY SERVICE YEARS.

None of the contents, opinions, statements, or positions expressed in this document are the official position of the Nike Historical Society but solely those of CW4 William J. Auell (deceased).

YOU’RE IN THE ARMY NOW

You're in the Army now,

You're not behind the plow,

You'll never get rich,

You son of a b-----,

You’re in the Army now.

Recruit William J Auell, RA13303902 reporting Sir!

The peace-time military services of 1949 were being manned by only volunteers. The draft had been suspended shortly after the end of World War II and all draftees had left the Army or re-enlisted in the Regular Army. Our war machine was down-sized to the point where engaging in a major conflict would not assure a victory for the United States. Many units were deactivated, and their equipment was put in moth balls. Several military installations were closed except for a small civilian force who maintained the facility and some of the stored equipment. The military appropriations portion of the federal budget was sliced dramatically. Billions of dollars were allocated to the Marshall Plan for the rebuilding of Europe, which resulted in waste beyond imagination.

When I served in France from 1952 through 1955 I saw first hand some of the results of this plan: thousands of electric refrigerators, washers and dryers rusting in acre after acre of open fields because no one in the United States Government took the time to consider the difference in electrical current. The United States uses 60 cycle electricity while Europe uses 50 cycle power. We sent thousands of new farm tractors to the European nations, and here again our governmental experts could not foresee any problems, not even the fact that the farmers were so destitute after the war they couldn’t afford the $2 a gallon of gasoline or diesel fuel. Quite a few French farmers had brand new American made tractors rusting in their fields. So some one had to pay for this plan, and it ended up being the armed forces. Austerity was the name of the game for the United States military. A recruit was paid $50 a month; and when Eisenhower was elected in 1952 he suggested returning to the pre-war pay scale of $21 a month.

I was assigned to a training company of the 3rd Armored Division, issued uniforms and equipment, given a haircut of my choice as long as it was a baldy, and billeted in WWII wooden barracks that were lined up perpendicular to the street. We soon learned that it was extremely important to get to the street in a very short time. In order to do that we had to leave the building via the side door, run down a small path and 'fall in' on the street. Since we were not fast enough to please our Platoon Sergeant [a PFC], especially the men that lived on the second floor, we had to practice in order to get our response time lower. One evening after dinner we were once again practicing our ‘fall in’ drill when one of the soldiers fell on the path. A lot of the troops tried to run around him but apparently some stepped on him breaking both of his legs. The platoon sergeant was a little more tolerant after that incident. He should have been court-martialed, but as far we knew, nothing was ever done.

A TASTE OF DISCIPLINE

One of the first things a new soldier does when he or she enters the Army is getting a medical and dental examination. I was in pretty good shape except I weighted 230 pounds and needed some dental work. On the day of my dental appointment I had to get on the ‘sick book’ and get a ‘sick slip’ from the First Sergeant, a grumpy old bird that was seldom seen after his morning coffee in the mess hall. Thank Goodness. I was standing in front of his desk and he asked me my last name, which I spelled for him 3 times and he still didn’t have it right, so I leaned on his desk to point out where he was making the mistake, when all of a sudden he slammed his fist on the desk top and screamed “You have your hand on my desk, you dumb S-- of a B----, that’s 3 days KP”. When he hit the desk I think I jumped about a foot off the floor. I almost messed my drawers. I never had anyone yell at me like that before. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there. Actually, I froze in place until he finally told me to get the hell out of his office. He gave me the sick slip and I was out of there Pronto. He still had my name misspelled, but I sure wasn’t going back and tell him. The following Saturday, Sunday and Monday I got up at 4 AM and

reported to the Mess Hall. I stayed clear of that First Shirt for as long as I was in that outfit. When I needed to go to the dentist the next time, I again had to face this tyrant. He gave me a sick slip and I was out of there. I didn’t care if he spelled my name ‘Benito Mussolini’, I wasn’t going back and tell him.

I saw this bird one more time during our graduation ceremony. I left Fort Knox and didn’t bother to say goodbye to my friendly First Sergeant. Boy, I would liked to have seen him about 10 years later. He sure as hell would be sorry if he didn’t stand at attention and address me as “sir”..

I will never forget the chow in that training company. They had a lot of guts calling it food. I lost 30 pounds in 12 weeks, and it wasn't all from the exercise. I think the Mess Sergeant had been a pig farmer before he found his home in the Army, at least his way of preparing food would strongly suggest that. Food was in short supply due to the budget crunch and a lot of it was Government surplus, therefore it would have taken someone with a little imagination and creative ability to prepare a meal that would be half way pleasing to the taste buds. We ate a lot of powdered eggs, in fact we ate them six days a week, fresh eggs [or at least they were still in the shell] only on Sunday. The cooks couldn’t fry an egg without breaking the yolk, so everyone ate scrambled eggs. We had canned condensed milk for cereal and morning coffee. No cream for coffee at lunch or dinner. I don't remember seeing a piece of fresh fruit the whole time I was there. I heard that three guys broke teeth trying to eat the biscuits. Another fellow thought he saw one of the green wieners move a little bit. There was a PX across the street from our barracks but we were not allowed to visit it until we got our first pay, which was almost a month after we set foot on the red Kentucky clay, and then we were told what to buy [no candy, chewing gum, cookies, snack food].

For twelve weeks we spend our days and nights learning close order drill, how to roll a field pack, map reading, first aid, camouflage, grade and rank recognition, survival skills, self-defense, tactics and a lot of other training that would prepare the recruit to be a good soldier. Of course, the big thrill of the entire twelve weeks was the issuance of your M1 rifle. We learned how to disassemble and reassemble our rifles, how to fall in love with our rifles and really mean it, how to remember the serial number of our rifles, how to carry our rifles, how to sleep with our rifles, how to clean our rifles, how to do the manual of arms with our rifles, how to guard with our rifles, how to fight with our rifles without firing it, and how to fire our rifles. I think I knew that rifle better than I knew some of my own body parts.

Naturally, being Army ground-pounders we marched, and marched, and marched some more. We took several 5 and 10 mile jaunts and one 30 mile beauty out to the bivouac area where we spent a week and then another 30 miles back to the garrison. Camping out in Kentucky in the winter was a barrel of fun. It just so happened that the winter of 48/49 was one of the worst in several years. It snowed nearly every day and the nights got so cold the sleeping bags barely kept one warm. One night I put my combat boots outside my sleeping bag and they froze stiff by the next morning. My rifle was warm though; I had that sucker in the sleeping bag with me. The food out there in the boonies was a real treat - left over World War II C-rations. The only thing good about them was the packet of four cigarettes with each meal. I didn't think any food could be worse than what we were fed back in garrison. What I wouldn't have given for one of those big greasy hamburgers I used to cook in our restaurant and a big chocolate shake. Using the unique toilet facility was another memorable experience. The original comfort station - the time honored slit trench. I quickly learned what was meant by frozen buns. The privacy was unusually quaint; there was none. You were out there moonin' the world, and right then you didn't give a damn. I wished I had that back yard toilet my Aunt Louise tried to get me to use when I was a small child, at least it had a seat, walls and a door that afforded some privacy. Even her second offering of her thunder mug would have been welcome at this point. There are some things that are better done alone.

After graduating from basic training I was assigned to Camp Lee near Petersburg, Virginia. There were four classes of creatures in that nice little southern town, ranked in the order of respect and worth. Whites, dogs, blacks, soldiers. We felt very unwelcome when we went down town. I attended a nine week administrative course that covered such

subjects as filing, preparation of correspondence, mailing, and the numerous duties that would be required of a clerk. I graduated as a Clerk because I couldn't type 45 words a minute; 30 being my tops. I didn't think that was too bad since I had never touched a

typewriter before attending that school.

Subsequent to a leave back to Pennsylvania, I arrived at my new duty station in June, 1949. I was assigned to the 3450th Station Hospital at Warren Air Force Base, Wyoming as a clerk. I later learned why I was assigned to an Air Force unit when I was in the

Army. I was what was known as SCARWAF [Special Category Army with Air Force];

Army personnel on loan to the Air Force because the Air Force at that time was in its

infancy, having broken away from the Army only a year before. There were 450 Air Force enlisted men and 45 Army enlisted men assigned to the hospital. The Army troops were treated just like the fly boys, except there was one gigantic morale problem; they did not have authority to promote Army dog faces. The Air Force got the stripes and the Army got the shaft. Not a real good situation, or at least not good as far as the ground-

pounders were concerned.

My duty assignment was the A & D [Admissions and Dispositions] office which was stuck down in the bowels of this old Cavalry structure built about the time Custer was making his last stand against the Indians. They had added several buildings behind the main section of the hospital that were used as wards and one building was the mess hall. All the buildings were connected by covered and heated hallways so that patients wouldn't get cold traveling within the facility. This hospital specialized in the treatment of Rheumatic Fever, serving any patient who was diagnosed RF. Most of the patients came from the Army and Air Force units in the Far East. The hospital had 300 beds that were occupied most of the time. Some of the patients were there over a year and they were assigned to a special hospital unit known as the Detachment of Patients. Their next step would be discharge to civilian life.

A THANKSGIVING TO FORGET

I’ll never forget my first Thanksgiving dinner in the service. The hospital food was pretty good most of the time. Two of my friends and I got all gussied up in our newly acquired civvies and went to the mess hall for dinner. There were six big beautiful turkeys sitting on the serving line, browned to a dark golden color that made me reminisce about the Thanksgiving dinners my mother so perfectly prepared.