Army
Base
On the Army base near the central California coast in 1959, we had nice red
brick barracks and these real nice Sergeants to tell us when to get up in the
morning and when to eat, run, exercise, and turn the lights out at night. We had
lots of food and all the milk you could drink, as long as it was not wasted. You
take it you drink it. That’s how I learned to drink two quarts of milk at the
field lunch, while training; every day. They issued each of us an eight and
three quarter pound M-1 Garand rifle -(gas operated automatic.) The first order
of the day was to learn how to operate the weapon and disassemble and assemble
the same. No tools needed, only reasonable dexterity. I heard the Instructor say
something about M-I thumb, when the bolt, driven by an eighteen-inch coil spring
would slam shut. We had to press our thumb into the open bolt receiver to close
the spring driven bolt. He talked a little fast for my Southern up-bringing and
I didn't catch the part where you rest the heel of your hand against the bolt
protrusion to allow resistance against the hand to close the bolt, slowly.
Oh yeah! I poked my thumb in there and that dad-gum thing slammed shut, right on
my thumbnail. We made a long march to a night maneuver (War Games) And as we
went to the prone position in the sandy soil, my rifle picked up some sand here
and there. I never did like dust on my shoes or mud on my pants legs on a normal
day and that sand on the rifle really bugged me. There was a nice pool of water
close by as it had been raining. So I just swished the big old rifle in the
water to remove the sand. No problem, it was dark and there was no-one close by.
We stayed out there all night and made the long march back to the quarters the
next morning. After breakfast the first detail was to clean our weapons. I
almost fainted when I disassembled that rifle and starred at the rust on every
inch of the inner workings. I think there was some steel wool involved and
plenty of oil. I was a nervous wreck; watching out of the corner of my eye for
the Platoon Sergeant, but he never came close enough to see the
condition of my rifle. Our Third Platoon ran competition with the First Platoon
for the Honor of "First Place", but we lost out. I wonder why!
by Claude Morgan