by Richard D. Hudson
It was June 1981. Synchronizing our pace, my dad led me to Carlisle Hall, headquarters of the military science department on the University of Texas at Arlington campus where I would sign paperwork to commit myself to the Army. He wore a class-A uniform with silver oak leaves on his shoulders. On the left side of his jacket above the pocket were ribbons for achievement, valor, and conspicuous gallantry. Precisely pinned above and below the ribbons were badges for combat and parachuting, Army icons of experience and courage. I admired and respected my dad. He was heroic. He had set the bar of military leadership high. I felt it my obligation to reach for that bar. I wanted to make him proud.
My path to leadership would be through ROTC. In ROTC, there is the Simultaneous Membership Program (SMP). This program’s aim was to shorten the time spent as a cadet, fill slots in the Army National Guard, decreasing the time to a commission. By condensing two years of ROTC into two summer semesters, and provided the academic requirements were met, a commission was possible in a little more than two years. My ideal plan culminated with a commission by June 1983.
To qualify for this accelerated program, I had to enroll in ROTC classes during the summer semesters after high school graduation. With Military Science I and II courses in ROTC summer school completed, I advanced in cadet rank to Military Science III. It was my obligation as an MS III SMP cadet to simultaneously serve in the Texas Army National Guard.
A provision of the SMP stipulated an immediate advancement in rank to sergeant E-5 in the National Guard. With a military occupational skill designation 11-E, I was made a noncommissioned officer and tanker with no responsibilities and with no training. It was thought that MS III cadets were advanced enough that they should be able to wing it; to learn on the job.
September 1981, as a new sergeant/SMP cadet, a few days after taking the oath of enlistment, I reported to Captain Dale Wagner, the company commander of B Company, 1st Battalion, 112th Armor Regiment of the now deactivated 49th Armored Division, also known as the Lone Star Division, in the Texas Army National Guard. I remember him as an agreeable officer, unlike most of the cadre at UTA. I rarely interacted with Captain Wagner. I was just an SMP cadet under his command and not a real sergeant he could count on.
Captain Wagner assigned me to Second Lieutenant Charles Herrington’s 3rd Platoon. Staff Sergeant Mike Stevens would be my platoon sergeant and tank commander. A United States Marine Corps combat veteran of the 3rd Division, Sgt. Stevens was the same age I was when he fought inside an M48 tank in Vietnam, a tank very similar to the M60 the National Guard employed during the early 1980s. He understood his job and seemed to understand me. We got along.
In his mid-thirties, 5’ 5” and now somewhat overweight, he made a likeable first impression. He was serious and confident with a sense of humor. He was a natural leader and treated me as if he believed one day I would be an officer. I appreciated his confidence.
My first field exercise with B Company was scheduled for my second weekend of drill on Friday, October 9, 1981. Leaving the Dallas armory aboard comfortable buses early in the evening, we arrived at Fort Hood a few hours later. After formation, Captain Wagner held a briefing with all his officers, NCO’s and tank commanders. As a sergeant and officer-in-training, my attendance was expected. The briefing was bewildering to me. I didn’t know anyone, I didn’t understand the terminology, and couldn’t find myself on a map. The meeting ended and we hit the cots.
My thoughts prevented me from sleeping well. Reveille came early. A nasty breakfast of greasy bacon and powdered eggs was followed by a formation where last-minute information and instructions were given, concluding with the order to “mount up!”
We prepped our M60 tanks. I was shown how to check the oil level, inspect the track link connectors, and establish radio contact with other tanks over the company net using proper radio procedures.
Standing chest deep in the tank commanders hatch, I radio-checked with the tank commander in a tank parked next to me. He smiled crookedly as he acknowledged and responded to the obvious rookie’s first radio check. Being new to the company, I didn’t know his name, and he didn’t know mine, we were call signs to each other.
Starting out, I would be the loader and Private First Class Gary Nelson the driver. The company was started up and ready, we moved out. Standing waist deep in the loader’s hatch, I enjoyed the view. The scene was picturesque. My senses were stimulated; the sun shined, and the temperature was mild. It was adventure and it felt good.
We stopped at the rally point where Captain Wagner divided the company into aggressors and defenders. The first and second platoons would be the defenders, the good guys. They sped off towards the area at the base of a bluff running north and south two or three miles away. They camouflaged themselves and took ambush positions waiting for the aggressors to attack. The third platoon would be the aggressors, employing Soviet Army steamroll tactics, or in the US Army tradition, the calvary charge.
This is when Sgt. Stevens decided it was time for me to drive. “You ready, Hudson?”
Without hesitation, I disconnected my crewman headset from the radio in the turret and traded places with the Gary. I thought to myself here it is. I was a little nervous. The other aggressor tanks had already started down the trail. I needed to immediately start rolling and catch up.
Right away, I had trouble putting the tank in gear. Sgt. Stevens told me to press hard on the brake pedal to engage the clutch. I pressed as hard as my skinny legs could on the large brake pedal, but the clutch wouldn’t engage.
Mildly panicking, I watched the other tanks pull further ahead, mildly frustrated, I said, “I’m pressing hard!”
“No, you got to press really hard.” he calmly replied.
Finally, I got the clutch to work, put the tank in gear, and caught up with the rest of the platoon. Driving the M60 tank became instinctual within a few seconds, like driving a very wide and heavy car from inside a cavernous cockpit. It was easy.
The platoon proceeded south single file, parallel to a dry creek bed. On command, we made a right flank turn to the west, and positioned ourselves on a line, facing the bluff, for the attack. We charged line abreast at approximately 20 miles an hour towards the ambush positions.
Through the positions, we came upon a relatively steep trail headed up the bluff. The trail was blocked with uprooted bushes and tree branches; it appeared purposely built. I asked Sgt. Stevens what I should do, he said, “go.” I ran over the apparent blockade with no trouble.
The tank was rolling straight on the rocky plateau of the bluff when Sgt. Stevens said turn left. I turned the wheel to the left. The steering jolted and abruptly felt loose. I was about to say something when he said stop.
There was a pause. “Shut her down”, he said with another pause. “We threw a track.” The three of us dismounted and looked. What we saw was alarming. The left track was wrapped and wedged between the left rear drive sprocket and the tank. It was a mess. Brute force could never unwedge the track. We needed a maintenance crew and their M88 tank recovery vehicle and cable to separate the track from the drive sprocket and reattach the track to the tank.
The sun was on the horizon when Lieutenant Herrington made his way to our position to look at the mechanical carnage. The sunset bathed everything with an orange glow, casting long shadows. Hands on hips, he looked impressed by the scene. I stood on my tank’s toolbox looking down at him when he looked up at me, and with an amused expression on his face, nodded and walked away to where the rest of the company had gathered. It was the last time I saw him.
Dusk had fallen. I sat inside my tank listening to activity over the radio when suddenly there was a transmission that informed there was a problem. The tanker firmly and calmly said what had just happened: there was a serious accident, there were casualties, and he needed help.
There was silence for a moment before the transmission was acknowledged with a “roger.” Questions and orders followed. I looked at Sgt. Stevens. He had been listening too. He told me to stay with our tank while he and Nelson dismounted and made their way to the accident scene.
Inside the turret of our broken tank, I sat on the tank commander’s iron-meshed seat with my crewman helmet headset on, waiting, monitoring the radio net. Outside, the night had turned very dark. I switched the lighting inside the tank from white to red. It started to rain; the wind blew hard. Over the radio, Captain Wagner warned all tankers that a tornado was in the area and told us to get inside our tanks and close the hatches. The rain became torrential, a typical early fall Texas gully-washer.
Worried, I watched the water pour through the open tank commander’s hatch, all over the radio and collect at the base of the turret. It was getting deep. I thought the water would damage the radio and flood the tank. I removed the helmet headset thinking I would be electrocuted because of the wet radio. The hatch was locked open, and no one had shown me how to unlock it. I had to get that hatch closed. With rain beating down, I examined the hatch base and managed to figure out the simple engineering, unlocking, and closing the hatch. I was drenched.
The rain stopped and the night cooled. I pulled out a damp field jacket from my duffle bag and put it on. Replacing the headset, I continued to wait and listen to the radio. Needing to do something, to find out what was going on, I tried a radio call. With no response, I dismounted and walked fifty feet from my tank towards distant lights obscured by trees a quarter mile or less away. Finally, I saw the silhouettes of Sgt. Stevens and Pvt. Nelson, with another soldier, walk towards me.
When they got near enough, Sgt. Stevens flatly reported, “Lieutenant Herrington is dead.”
There was nothing I could say. We walked in silence back to the tank. Stevens gave a simple explanation of what had happened: “The tank he was on flipped.” He said a tank commander had also been killed. He was the one I had exchanged radio checks with that morning. He was Specialist Fourth Class Chester Roberts.
Lt. Herrington had been standing on the outside of Roberts’ tank while it was moving, consulting over a map, defying safety rules. Their attention focused on the map, neither of them were paying attention to the tank’s direction. The driver rolled over a fifty-foot embankment hidden by shrub and darkness. The right track hit a large boulder on the way down, rolling the tank over them and killing both. The driver, Private First Class Ruperto Garcia Jr., was severely injured.
It was late when we bedded down for the night. I stayed awake the entire night. I couldn’t sleep sitting straight up in the tank commander’s seat. Sgt. Stevens and Gary were comfortably bedded on duffle bags at the base of the turret, the third unknown soldier sprawled out in my driver’s compartment. Stevens snored below me while I dwelled on the previous evening. I kept thinking to myself that it could have been me.
Sunday morning sucked. It was cool, damp, and muddy. I looked in the eyes of a Vietnam veteran of the US Army’s 4th Infantry Division, a sergeant first class. In his eyes I saw shock, sadness, and disgust. The accident caught him off guard too. He was my source of gory details of the accident scene.
The sergeant first class said Lt. Herrington was flattened almost beyond recognition, and Specialist Roberts was torn in half, his body half in and half out of the tank. My imagination of what the grizzly scene must have looked like was forever fire-branded my memory. There was no choice but to deal with it. I considered myself lucky that I wasn’t there when the tank was unrolled off the bodies.
The sun returned, and the day warmed. I spent Sunday afternoon trying to get some sleep while we waited for the maintenance crew to make their way to us. Lying on the outside of my tank in the warming sun, I continued to replay the previous night in my head. It was seemingly incomprehensible how quickly and irreversibly a life could be snuffed out by a freak accident. It was naked reality; life as a soldier could be short.
Our tank was repaired late Sunday afternoon and was returned to the motor pool with the left track installed backwards. It had been such a frustrating struggle to link the two ends of the track, no one noticed it was reversed before we finally got the track to link. Company B had to be back at the armory in North Dallas by Sunday night, there wasn’t time to correct the mistake.
The bus ride home was somber and muted. I was tired, saddened, and horrified. It hadn’t been a good weekend. Everyone was anxious to get home as rapidly as possible.
We arrived at the armory around 10 or 11pm. I was the second or third out of the bus. I grabbed my duffle bag and walked inside the armory. Battalion staff people, and others, had been waiting for our arrival. The first person I recognized was my dad, dressed in his fatigues. As a regular Army senior advisor to the Army National Guard, it was appropriate he be there. The company was formed and dismissed. We stayed out of each other’s way. Dad had business to attend to and would make his way to where I was when he could.
I watched him as he comforted the widow of Specialist Roberts. He held her hand in both of his while he softly said something to her. I was too far away to hear. She was distraught, but strong and remained calm. The child with her was too young to know what was happening. It was a private moment in a public space. I respectfully looked away.
Dad finally made his way to where Sgt. Stevens and I were standing. He asked Stevens how I did. Stevens smiled ruefully and answered, “He’s a natural.”
Proudly humored, Dad looked at me and asked, “Do you want to talk?” I didn’t. I wanted to maintain my composure. I knew if he got me alone I would lose it. He could sense the inner tension I was feeling. Overcoming tragedy had been a part of his experience. I acquiesced and followed my dad outside.
Finding a secluded area just outside a side door of the armory, with my back against the wall, I faced my dad. He waited. We stood there saying nothing. Then, losing control, emotion came flooding out of me. I lost control and cried. Dad said nothing. There was nothing he could say, he let me vent. I was embarrassed and angry that I couldn’t hold it together in front of him, that I showed weakness.
The accident hit B Company hard. Lt. Herington and Specialist Roberts were well-liked, and from what I later learned from dad, good soldiers. Though I hadn’t been in the unit long enough to know them, they continue to haunt my memory.
The accident would taint ROTC and the National Guard from then on. In October 1981, I still had two years to go in my contract, and I wasn’t positive I wanted to be in the military anymore. The confidence in my choice to be a soldier had been shaken. It wouldn’t be an easy life. The remainder of the contract I was committed, but I questioned my desire. My performance was honorable, I did what I was told, but I led no one. I wasn’t a standout cadet.
By Spring 1983, I wasn’t feeling like officer material and didn’t believe I had raised the bar high enough to be a second lieutenant by June. The accelerated program had outpaced my preparedness, my maturity, and the accident had opened my eyes. Furthermore, I didn’t have the required college credits. My civilian grades were failing or incomplete, and my major course of study was undeclared. Good ROTC grades aside, the façade was crumbling. I was pretending to be a student and leader.
A stoic disciplinarian, young cadets feared Major Tom Breckinridge. He and his officers and NCOs watched the Corps of Cadets closely, looking for the outstanding. I wasn’t performing to expectations, and they noticed.
One afternoon, I reported as ordered to Major Breckenridge’s office. He acknowledged my report and invited me to have a seat. He was friendly, which made me suspicious. He cordially and directly came to the point: I wouldn’t be commissioned. He paused to let his statement to sink in. I can’t say it was a big surprise. I wasn’t ready for commission, and I knew it. I was silent. He offered choices: I could remain a cadet longer, or, having fulfilled the contract to their satisfaction, I could honorably quit ROTC and the National Guard. He suggested I continue.
I asked myself how badly I did I want to be a second lieutenant? The answer came relatively quickly. It took a few seconds for me to listen to myself, to my heart. This was my chance to opt out. I quit. Major Breckenridge acknowledged my choice and dismissed me. I walked out of his office feeling free of a burden, but full of doubt.
I had expended a considerable amount of time and effort. Quitting meant that it would all have been done for nothing. I ignored the doubt and remained steadfast in my decision. I didn’t want to be in ROTC or the National Guard anymore. A career in the military was not for me. I preferred to be a civilian.
My military service would be for a short time. Despite the lack of longevity, I can say yes, I did serve. According to box 11(c) on my NGB 22 form, the Army National Guard equivalent to the form DD 214, a government document of separation from the full-time armed services, my dates of enlistment are 8 September 1981 through 1 May 1983. I served one year, seven months, and twenty-four days as a part-time soldier. It was an intense period. I’ll never forget the accident.
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Richard D. Hudson has been in the graphic arts and creative services industry for thirty-five years. He is currently employed as a digital image retoucher and animator by Mary Kay, Inc., at their corporate headquarters in Addison, Texas. His short non-fiction story, “Short Time,” is his first published work.
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