In December of 1951, I received a summons from the Jackson County, Oklahoma Draft Board ordering me to report for induction into the Army. It was a disaster. I had 6 more months to go before graduation from the University of Oklahoma. I was devastated. In desperation I wrote a letter to the draft board explaining the situation – promising that I would join the Army next June if they would just let me finish my degree. I waited an eternity before receiving a reply – agreeing to my proposal.
Sometime during my last semester at the university, I took the exam for Naval Officers Candidate School, passed it, but found that it would require a commitment of 4 years as opposed to two years in the Army. I decided that I would rather be an army private for 2 years than an admiral for 4 years. I remember thinking that I would be giving up some of the most productive years of my life.
With the threat of the Korean War (officially a Conflict) over my head, I completed the semester and reported for induction to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma where I learned, not quickly enough, that one should not volunteer for anything. At the first morning muster, the Sergeant asked if those who could type would “fall out.” As a typist, I spent the next 36 consecutive hours on KP (kitchen patrol.) I remember very little about those 36 hours except that I broke thirty dozen eggs for one cake. I suspect that it was a big one.
At the next muster, 2 days later, when asked for college graduates to stand out, I did not move – for the first and last time, denying my newly acquired degree. Those college graduates who did not deny their degrees spent the day digging post holes. Perhaps funny now, but I saw nothing funny about it then.
Soon I was shipped to Fort Riley, Kansas for basic training – 16 weeks of it. It was awful! Ever present was the knowledge that you were learning to kill someone. Even more immediate, but also omnipresent, was the fact that my toes hurt. The boots that I was issued were size 11B, but my feet were size 13 AAA. My toes went to sleep. Sixteen weeks later I was able to find shoes that more nearly fit and I was able to massage my big toes awake again.
For years I had learned to question things, thinking it was necessary to improve myself. In basic training we all were required to do things that were not only senseless but ridiculous. Polish your boots and when you finish, polish them again. Why? Because you were told to. Put on your pile coat wrong side out. Why? Because you were told to. In the middle of the night, you would be awakened for “piss call.” Why? Because you were told to. I wanted to rebel but knew that I couldn’t afford to. I was about to go out of my mind, until another recruit, Pvt. Couteway, a Cajun from Louisiana, told me to start laughing at all these stupid orders. Following his advice, things soon got better. When told to lace my boots from top to bottom, I just laughed and did it, knowing full well that I would have to unlace them completely to take them off. C’est la vie.
During those hard times, I got a letter from my older brother, Dick. He had been a Lt. Commander during World War II. He outlined my problem accurately and completely. He advised that one should follow orders without question so that, under fire, one would be able to react quickly and follow orders without question. Of course, he was right but at that time, I didn’t like the message – nor the messenger.
I became proficient in all sorts of killing devices –bazookas, BARs, mortars, etc. I even received a medal for use of the M-2 rifle. After having received a black eye from its kickback, I learned to aim, pull my cheek away without moving the rifle before firing. I also learned to “fix bayonet” and lunge forward shouting “kill.” This was hard for me. I don’t think that I could do such a thing; however, the alternative might be being killed. Thank goodness I never had to use this. A miracle happened.
After completing basic training, at the last muster before leaving for Korea, I was called out of formation and told to report to the company chaplain, Capt. Leslie McCue. I couldn’t think why the chaplain wanted to see me. Usually, recruits were called to the chaplain’s office if they had not written home. This couldn’t have been true in my case. Upon reporting, I found that he had asked for an assistant who could play the organ. Somehow this fact that I could play the organ had been punched into a McBee/Keysort card. My card fell out of the pack. I got the job. Within a couple of weeks, my former company was on the front lines in Korea while I stayed at Fort Riley. The organ lessons that I had taken four years earlier could have very well saved my life.
I felt eternally grateful. In just a few weeks, several from my company had been killed in action.
As a chaplain’s assistant, my duties were not onerous – indeed one might refer to them as cushy. As I said, the chaplain handled many complaints from mothers who had not heard from their sons. Other than playing for services, I mostly did secretarial work.
Growing up as a Methodist, I was accustomed to having grape juice for communion but my first chaplain, Capt. McCue liked to use wine instead. This did not surprise me, but, when the wine kept disappearing, Chaplain McCue confessed that he and his wife liked a “little” drink before dinner. I upped our monthly wine request. Anything to save souls.
I recall that when I first met Chaplain Taylor, Chaplin McCue’s replacement, he said to me “Care for a chaw of tobacker?” He was a strict Southern Baptist and would not condone wine for communion. Instead, we used grape Kool-Aid. I don’t think that he believed in the miracle of consubstantiation. That was good for I think that even God might have trouble changing grape Kool-Aid into the blood of Christ.
About the time that I was promoted to Corporal. I was also promoted from being an assistant in a company chapel to be the assistant to the Division Chaplain, Col. Urban J. Wurm, where my duties were only secretarial in nature. I was no longer required to play for Wednesday night and Sunday services unless one of the company chapels needed a substitute.
On the first day of my new job, I heard Chaplain Wurm call from his office “corporal, will you take a letter?” I went to his office and said “Certainly, where would you like me to take it?” To my surprise, he meant that he wanted to dictate a letter. I quickly got some paper and, not knowing any shorthand, made a few notes as he dictated. After he finished, I wrote the letter the way I remembered, typed it, and gave it to him for his signature. To my great relief, he never mentioned the fact that it was not exactly as he dictated. This modus operandi continued throughout the rest of my Army tenure.
In addition to my other duties, I fed and walked his dogs – a Doberman and a cocker – twice a day. He spent most of his time at the Officers Club.
One Sunday morning, I was called to substitute for a sick colleague whose chaplain was a very fundamentalist preacher – full of hell, fire, and damnation. I grabbed some music and got there in time for the service. Everything was going along nicely, but as I was playing the organ for the offertory, I heard the chaplain say, “now Corporal brother Joe Howard will pray for us.” Having to read the music, there was no way that I could play and pray at the same time – especially the type of prayer that was expected. I did the only thing that I could think of – open the crescendo pedal and play – loudly.
For several years, I would often have a tinge of guilt for being spared from going to Korea. I would suppress the guilt until the guilt gradually disappeared until I was able to forget it.
So much for saving my country in a time of need.
