EARNING A STRIPE BY THE NUMBERS
When I was pretty young, 10 or 11, I developed a penchant for numbers. As an example, I noted that many people’s birthdays stopped at 39. Oh, they had the parties and accepted the gifts, but their age did not change from 39. It was an old Jack Benny comedy thing. He was always 39...into his 80s. People also spoke of retiring at 65. I noted the difference between 39 and 65 was 26, the number of letters in the alphabet. So, for those not wishing to pass 39, they could just add a letter each year. 40 would be 39A. 65 would be 39Z. After 65, one can start the letters over (39ZA) or just be glad they're still alive. It was in the numbers.
Now, the story....
Our basic training squadron had not done well at the rifle range “practice fire”. “Practice fire” is preparation for “final fire”, which you must pass to complete Air Force basic training in the mid-60s. Apparently, there were inter-squadron wagers between training instructors and between squadron commanders on the results. There had been inter-squadron wagers on other training activities as well. The results of the rifle range only made sense.
Our newly assigned “assistant training instructor”, Sgt. Bartlett, was an E-4 Marine cross-trainee. He had been a Marine drill instructor for a few years, but had finally realized that rank came too slow in the Marines. The Air Force had promised him an E-5 stripe for his first successful graduating squadron and an E-6 stripe a year later. Needless to say, he was not only able to lead raw recruits, but very eager to do so successfully.
“I’m not happy!” he screamed as we marched back to the barracks from the firing range. “Your heads are bobbin’! Your heads are bobbin’! You look like a sea of s*^t. You can’t march and you can’t shoot! What the hell are you good for?! I’m not happy! I’m not happy!”
All of sudden, he screamed, “Halt! At ease!” We halted and waited for a verbal onslaught. Instead, he strolled beside the formation, smiling. “Look, fellas. All you have to do is focus on your target – your target - and squeeze, not pull. How many times do I have to tell you that crap? I know. I know. You were nervous. You tried too hard. Most of you never touched a rifle before today….although I think a couple of you are very familiar with zip guns.” There were some giggles in the ranks. He smiled. “We’re going to the armory later this week and practice. Just so you’ll know, I only hit 48 of 60 my first time. Now, I’m a qualified sniper. Believe me, you can do this.”
That was it. No screaming or yelling. He seemed to understand. What just happened? Why was he nice? We formed up and marched back to the barracks to some cadence tune he knew quite well. It was funny and a little dirty, so we all chimed in eagerly. No more was said about the poor outing until we went to the armory.
The following Tuesday, we marched to the armory. As he handed each recruit an old M-1 Carbine, he aimed it into the ground and pulled the trigger, then opened the bolt and visually inspected the clip receiver. There would be no accidental shootings this day. With his calm guidance, we took them apart and put them back together….several times. We were told the standard information Air Force recruits get, then the detail that only a very knowledgeable person could provide from experience. There were no stupid questions about weapons. He entertained all the questions and gave us answers. No smart ass. We were amazed how his demeanor was so nurturing and calm. I suspect that was not how he was taught when he was a raw Marine recruit. At one point, he was told by another NCO who worked at the armory that he had a phone call. While he was on the phone in the office, the other NCO walked over and said, “You're getting battle field instruction guys. You guys don’t know about ribbons yet, but this guy was a Marine Silver Star Vietnam Combat Veteran before he cross-trained. Timmons told me this guy was a real bad-ass, so what he’s telling you is the real deal. Better listen up. You’ll probably learn something.”
We were in awe. After all, most of us were in the Air Force to avoid the Army or Marines. ALL those guys were going to Vietnam. We also realized that he never only hit 48 of 60 at the rifle range, but was telling us that to ease our frustrations. Our general attitude about Sgt. Bartlett changed over the next three weeks. We came to recognize he was trying to learn the “Air Force Way” of basic training, a kinder, less abusive training that did not focus on self-defense and killing and survival, but more on mental agility and survival. He seemed to recognized that all of us were trying hard and he was not quite the disciplinarian we had known him to be.
He did seem to resent my stripe. You see, if a recruit had 2 years of collegiate Reserve Officers Training Corp class work, he or she was awarded a stripe upon taking the oath of allegiance. In most cases, unless there was more than one of you in a squadron, that destined one to be a “leader” throughout the course of basic training and technical training, where you would likely be a “Red Rope” squadron leader over three shifts of tech school trainees. Basic training found me the squadron training leader. Not only did I have the two years of ROTC experience, but I had also been a member of the Air Force precision drill unit for two years. A little more was expected of guys that were awarded the stripe. However, the policy took the decision out of the training instructor’s hands; unless, of course, that recruit really screwed up. Sgt. Bartlett resented that loss of authority and told me on two occasions that he would not have selected me for Squadron Leader. Oh, he wasn’t out to get me or anything like that; but he was very observant, if you get my drift.
“Final fire” day. We were all nervous as we marched to the rifle range. Sgt. Bartlett was training all the way. “Remember to focus on the target and squeeze. Don’t pull. Take your time with each shot, but don’t freeze up. Got it? Do we need to stop and go over anything before we get there?” He was nervous too. If someone did not pass, they would have to be set back and that could mean bad things for Sgt. Bartlett's future.
We arrived and received all the same introductory information we had received at “practice fire;” but we all paid attention. Sgt. Bartlett was peering at us over his sun glasses. Tech Sgt. Timmons, our primary training instructor, had found a seat in the bleachers that offered a good view of our squadron.
We took our places on the firing line. There would three firing positions for each of us: standing, prone, and sitting. We were allotted twenty rounds for each position. We started at the whistle. Our extra training was paying off in our fire prep times and in our fire execution times. Nobody choked. Nobody had weapon issues. Everyone finished fire under the allotted time.
While the targets were being recovered and the holes in each counted, Sgt. Bartlett was most complimentary of all of us. When the scores had been tallied, an NCO that worked at the range brought them to him. Sergeant Bartlett scanned the sheet and loudly pronounced, "Gentlemen! We are graced this day by a true expert marksman. Seems your Squadron leader scored 81 hits! Eighty-one of sixty is a phenomenal score." Everyone laughed, but quietly. They were waiting for their results. He was smiling big as he continue to scan the score sheet; when, quite suddenly, his demeanor changed. We could see it was more than normal disappointment, as his face reddened and he screamed, “What the Hell have I been trying to tell you guys? Focus! Focus! Is that asking so much!? Jesus Christ! Miller! Denard! You’ll have to re-fire! If you can’t pass the re-fire, I will have no choice but to set you back in the program. Miller you hit 49. Denard, 50. Get ready for re-fire. You had better focus!” Sgt. Bartlett was not a happy guy. A lot was on the line.
But the numbers added up.
I piped up quickly. “Sir! Sir! I had 81 holes in my target!” “So what!?” he angrily barked. “Miller! Denard! Get ready for re-fire.” “Sir. Crawford hit 60. Miller hit 49. Denard hit 50 and Brown hit 60. I was between Miller and Denard and had 81 hits. That means both of them aimed at my target for a time.” Again Sgt. Bartlett barked, “So what!?” “Sir, what you might take into account is that all the hits add up to 300, the total number of hits possible for five shooters, since we were each given 60 rounds. That means that even though Miller and Bennett did not hit their targets, they did hit a target…mine They did not miss. Instead of making them re-fire, all five of us should all be graded as “Expert.”
Technical Sergeant Timmons had been watching from the bleachers. He smiled a wry smile and actually applauded when he heard what I told Sgt. Bartlett. Sgt. Bartlett pondered it for a moment. You could see his wheels turning. He turned at looked at the NCO in charge of the rifle range. Looking a little puzzled, the NCO said, "They didn't miss. They did hit targets. I'm sure it's the same on the battlefield. Shoot somebody...anybody." Sgt. Barlett could relate to that comment. The NCO gave Sgt. Bartlett the nod and smiled too; though it was a different kind of smile, a smile that knew somebody was getting away with something. Then, Sgt. Bartlett also smiled. He turned to me and said, “Kid…you’ve got a head on your shoulders. You just earned that early stripe.” He gave me a little salute and a pat on the ass, turned to the rest of our squadron and yelled, “Good job, men. Check in your weapons and fall in. It’s time to go to the movies!” There was some surprise and some hesitation, but a loud cheer suddenly pierced the winter air. He had promised if we did well at our “final fire” he would take us to the movies…and buy the popcorn. Our squadron members had done very well. No scores below 56. Eleven “Experts”….that’s 59 or 60…and that included Miller and Denard. Strangely enough, Rupert Tvarski, a guy with an attitude (see his story), also shot Expert that day. Sgt. Bartlett made a point of offering his personal thanks to Tvarski. We all saw it. Some of us even understood it. Tvarski had made Sgt. Bartlett’s a more difficult job than it should have been on several occasions; yet Bartlett offered his respect and appreciation for setting aside any differences and doing a great job.
He not only bought the popcorn, but the drinks and candy bars too. I guessed he had won a bet. A couple of weeks later, he verified that to me in a private conversation. Yes, we had dominated all other squadrons at the firing range that day. Frankly, I felt “special” just having that conversation. My father never spoke of WWII, except humorous moments; so I chose not to ask about Bartlett's Vietnam experience or his Silver Star. He had complimented me one other time on what he called a “leadership skill”…that is, dealing with a very adverse situation appropriately (see “But I Gotta Go!”).
As I ponder it now, Sgt. Bartlett was a great soldier and a very good trainer of raw recruits who probably became a great trainer of raw recruits. He possessed more understanding than expected and, in our quiet moments, we all respected that about him. Believe it or not, some of us actually discussed it a time or two. He had really helped our transition into military life. We were ready. Still, I like to think we helped him too.
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