Army Memories
Title
Army Memories
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"For some time, as I have been writing these pieces, ideas have been coming to me in the early morning while I am half asleep. The idea that occurred to me this morning was to describe the people and events I can still remember from my time in the Army."
Date
2011
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Coverage
1954/1955
Identifier
Army_Memories
Text
Army Memories
For some time, as I have been writing these pieces, ideas have been coming to me in the early morning while I am half asleep. The idea that occurred to me this morning was to describe the people and events I can still remember from my time in the Army.
The first name that came to mind was George Hanc. George and I were both statistical clerks at Camp Gordon’s South Eastern Signal School. We weren’t particularly friendly, though we should have been. Both from New York, both older soldiers, we had both done graduate work in economics, we were both married and lived off post in the same development. However, George kept to himself. I suspect the biggest obstacle to our being friends was that I was Jewish and George was not, but people kept thinking he was. If he hung out with me, it would reinforce their belief that he was Jewish.
Thinking about George, I Googled him, found his phone number, and called him. George is living in Bethesda, Maryland, so I assumed he had worked for the government. I also assumed he had gotten his PhD. (The call was very much like the one I had placed around 1966 to Otto Eckstein.) I said, “Hello George. This is Jake Schlitt. We were together at Camp Gordon in 1955, and I was wondering how you are.” After his initial shock, we had a grand time visiting, reminiscing about the good old days, and bringing each other up-to-date. Yes, George did get his PhD. from Columbia, went to work for the National Bureau of Economic Research, then for a bankers trade association, the FDIC, and then, as a consultant to the Treasury Department. He has three children, his wife was a librarian, and they have been married for 59 years. These days he is feeling bored.
I don’t know about George, but I had a great time at Camp Gordon. Our assignment, scoring tests and calculating averages, was not too demanding, Sylvia liked her job as a secretary for a Colonel in the Military Police, and she met two GIs who became our friends: Bob Martinson and Curt Leviant. I have written short pieces about both of them. I did not become close friends with anyone in my outfit, though we invited them to our house a number of evenings. We would provide cheese and crackers, and peanuts and potato chips, and two cases of beer. Two of my buddies put away a case of beer between them. One of them, Harry Brown, was from Chicago, had played college football, and was a good-natured anti-Semite. A favorite gag of his: He would pull up his shirt sleeve and say, in what he thought was a Jewish accent, “Vanna buy a vatch, misteh?”
Our unit was headed by a Sergeant Faust who seemed to resent the draftees who pulled such a plum assignment. He made us toe the mark. There was also a civilian employee who was much more liberal than his fellow Augustans. When he learned that I had been a union organizer, he urged me to stay in Augusta after my discharge, and help organize the South. During our year and a half, we attended all the cultural events Augusta offered, and enjoyed the hospitality of the Augusta Jewish Community Center. And Sylvia received excellent care at the Army Hospital during her pregnancy, and during and after the birth of Carol.
(Basic Training—the reader; the fat guy who played the piano; (check the photo) Camp Rucker—the Floumenhafts; Chuck and Jo Lantz; young couple; Roger Farrell (?); someone who lived in NY State; Joseph Roggenbauer- Keene NH. Rocky Rocky Hal; Obstetrician)
Memories of Camp Rucker
When I completed basic training at Fort Dix, the end of July, 1954, I was shipped to Fort Jackson, South Carolina. It was clear that the Army didn’t know what to do with me. Most inductees were around 18 and either high school graduates or drop-outs, and most of them went into the Infantry. I was 26 and had four years of graduate school.
I met with a few officers who actually tried to figure out where I would be most useful. They were aware that I had a Master’s in Education, and had been a teacher before I was a union organizer. I don’t remember doing anything while stationed at Fort Jackson. I may have pulled KP and guard duty, but that was it. After a week or two, I received orders to go to Camp Rucker in Alabama as an “I and E NCO,” an Information and Education Non-Commissioned Officer. I was a buck private, but I assumed the designation referred to the time when I would be made a private first class and then a corporal. I now had an MOS. I forget what it stood for, but it described a skill area. Possibly Military Occupation Specialty?
My orders were cut, I was given a train ticket, and I was on my way. I arrived at Camp Rucker and was assigned to a company, and a barracks. The following day, I was told that they had no need for an I and E NCO at the time, but they could use a mail clerk, so I became the company’s mail clerk, and non-functioning I and E NCO. Everyone in my unit was helpful and pleasant.
My responsibility was to pick up the mail each day, and distribute it. I had access to the company sedan to get the mail. Unfortunately, I really didn’t know how to drive, and I didn’t have a driver’s license. My buddies couldn’t believe it. I did learn the rudiments of driving in 1952, but not having driven, they had gotten rusty. My buddies got a kick out of teaching me how to drive—on the army sedan. I stalled a lot, (it was a standard shift) but eventually I got the hang of it. One of my teachers was a GI from New England whose name was John Raynor. He grew up on a farm, was tall, blond, quiet-spoken and frugal. He had a station wagon on which he replaced the axles so that he could use truck tires, which lasted longer. He also drove in his stocking feet so that he could better control the pressure on the accelerator, saving gas. He was a great driving instructor.
Camp Rucker was in Southern Alabama, between the towns of Ozark and Enterprise. It was big, and it was opened in 1942 as an Army Aviation School. During World War II, there were some 40,000 troops there. It was deactivated after the war, then reopened when we got involved with Korea, closed down again in June 1954, and reopened in August, just about the time I got there. It became Fort Rucker the following year, after I left. A few weeks after I arrived, I began planning for Sylvia join me, and we would live off post. I looked around for an apartment and for a used car. I found both, and Sylvia arranged to move down, leaving our apartment in the Bronx for an apartment in Enterprise. Whatever arrangements I had to make, I did. Sylvia flew into Montgomery, I picked her up in our new car, we drove to our new apartment, and we renewed our life together.
It was wonderful being together again. Like a second honeymoon. We made friends with several other married couples, and didn’t have a care in the world. I would go off to my job as mail clerk, and Sylvia would play house, and visit with the other army wives. We became close to another couple: Chuck and Jo Lantz. They were from Detroit and were very much like us, with similar interests. We found ourselves at Camp Rucker and managed to make the best of our situation, and connected with other army couples.
On one occasion, several couples drove down to the Panama City beach, and we all had a wonderful time, swimming and picnicking on the beach. (Sylvia reminded me that we didn’t have such a great time because we planned to sleep on the beach, but gnats or flies drove us off the beach, and we checked into a nearby motel.) One of the couples was very young, perhaps 19 or 20, and they had just returned from Japan. As we were sitting around talking, the sweet young thing observed, that “in Japan, women carry for 10 months.” The rest of us looked quizzically at her, and a few of us said that people, whether they are Japanese, African, or American, carry for nine months. No, she insisted, Japanese women carry for 10 months. She knew this because they had been in Japan and that is what she learned. Aha! I exclaimed. The Japanese must have a lunar calendar, which would make it 9 ½ months, which could be considered 10. We didn’t pursue it.
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, “The High Holy Days” were coming, and Sylvia and I wanted to go to services. There were no Synagogues in Ozark or Enterprise, but there was a Reform Temple in the town of Dothan, about 20 miles away. I took leave, and that is where we went.
The members of the congregation were very welcoming. I was in uniform and was even given an Aliyah. They did not have a regular Rabbi, but imported one from New York. He was their regular High Holidays Rabbi. Sylvia was surprised to see how affectionate he was toward the women members. No Rabbi we had known would hug a woman congregant. They wouldn’t even shake their hand, but our experience was limited to Orthodox Synagogues.
We enjoyed the services, and even liked the fact that there was more English than we were used to. But what really stood out for me was the Shofar-blowing. I had never heard the Shofar blown so well. Every note was perfect, loud, clear, and the final note, “the tekia gadola” was held longer than I had ever heard. After the service, I went over to the Shofar-blower to compliment him and to tell him how impressed I was. He was an older man with a Southern drawl. He thanked me, and explained that he has played trumpet and bugle for more than 40 years so he should know how to blow a Shofar. Then he added, with a touch of sadness, his children are members of a Conservative Congregation in Montgomery, and his Shofar blowing is not kosher enough for them.
I was driving to Camp and back on a learner’s permit. Finally, the day came for me to take my driver’s test. I felt fairly confident, and drove to the equivalent of the State motor vehicle bureau in Enterprise. I was met by a very serious tester with a clip board. I took the written exam, and then he had me get behind the wheel, and sat down next to me. He started giving me orders: drive to the end of the street; make a left turn; drive two blocks and make a right turn; stop in the middle of the next block and make a U turn; park behind the car on your right; pull out and put the car in reverse and drive it to the end of the block. I was very conscious about looking in the rear view mirror, and executing all the hand signals, but driving in reverse was something else. He wanted me to drive backward at the same rate of speed that I drive forward. I failed my driver’s test. They are tough in Alabama. And they don’t cotton to Northerners.
Speaking of “cotton,” the area around Camp Rucker had been cotton country with large cotton plantations, but they were destroyed by the boll weevel. Thanks to George Washington Carver, who discovered lots of uses for peanuts, stimulating a demand, the farmers of Enterprise switched from cotton to peanuts, and did very well. So what did they do? They put up a monument to the boll weevel.
For some time, as I have been writing these pieces, ideas have been coming to me in the early morning while I am half asleep. The idea that occurred to me this morning was to describe the people and events I can still remember from my time in the Army.
The first name that came to mind was George Hanc. George and I were both statistical clerks at Camp Gordon’s South Eastern Signal School. We weren’t particularly friendly, though we should have been. Both from New York, both older soldiers, we had both done graduate work in economics, we were both married and lived off post in the same development. However, George kept to himself. I suspect the biggest obstacle to our being friends was that I was Jewish and George was not, but people kept thinking he was. If he hung out with me, it would reinforce their belief that he was Jewish.
Thinking about George, I Googled him, found his phone number, and called him. George is living in Bethesda, Maryland, so I assumed he had worked for the government. I also assumed he had gotten his PhD. (The call was very much like the one I had placed around 1966 to Otto Eckstein.) I said, “Hello George. This is Jake Schlitt. We were together at Camp Gordon in 1955, and I was wondering how you are.” After his initial shock, we had a grand time visiting, reminiscing about the good old days, and bringing each other up-to-date. Yes, George did get his PhD. from Columbia, went to work for the National Bureau of Economic Research, then for a bankers trade association, the FDIC, and then, as a consultant to the Treasury Department. He has three children, his wife was a librarian, and they have been married for 59 years. These days he is feeling bored.
I don’t know about George, but I had a great time at Camp Gordon. Our assignment, scoring tests and calculating averages, was not too demanding, Sylvia liked her job as a secretary for a Colonel in the Military Police, and she met two GIs who became our friends: Bob Martinson and Curt Leviant. I have written short pieces about both of them. I did not become close friends with anyone in my outfit, though we invited them to our house a number of evenings. We would provide cheese and crackers, and peanuts and potato chips, and two cases of beer. Two of my buddies put away a case of beer between them. One of them, Harry Brown, was from Chicago, had played college football, and was a good-natured anti-Semite. A favorite gag of his: He would pull up his shirt sleeve and say, in what he thought was a Jewish accent, “Vanna buy a vatch, misteh?”
Our unit was headed by a Sergeant Faust who seemed to resent the draftees who pulled such a plum assignment. He made us toe the mark. There was also a civilian employee who was much more liberal than his fellow Augustans. When he learned that I had been a union organizer, he urged me to stay in Augusta after my discharge, and help organize the South. During our year and a half, we attended all the cultural events Augusta offered, and enjoyed the hospitality of the Augusta Jewish Community Center. And Sylvia received excellent care at the Army Hospital during her pregnancy, and during and after the birth of Carol.
(Basic Training—the reader; the fat guy who played the piano; (check the photo) Camp Rucker—the Floumenhafts; Chuck and Jo Lantz; young couple; Roger Farrell (?); someone who lived in NY State; Joseph Roggenbauer- Keene NH. Rocky Rocky Hal; Obstetrician)
Memories of Camp Rucker
When I completed basic training at Fort Dix, the end of July, 1954, I was shipped to Fort Jackson, South Carolina. It was clear that the Army didn’t know what to do with me. Most inductees were around 18 and either high school graduates or drop-outs, and most of them went into the Infantry. I was 26 and had four years of graduate school.
I met with a few officers who actually tried to figure out where I would be most useful. They were aware that I had a Master’s in Education, and had been a teacher before I was a union organizer. I don’t remember doing anything while stationed at Fort Jackson. I may have pulled KP and guard duty, but that was it. After a week or two, I received orders to go to Camp Rucker in Alabama as an “I and E NCO,” an Information and Education Non-Commissioned Officer. I was a buck private, but I assumed the designation referred to the time when I would be made a private first class and then a corporal. I now had an MOS. I forget what it stood for, but it described a skill area. Possibly Military Occupation Specialty?
My orders were cut, I was given a train ticket, and I was on my way. I arrived at Camp Rucker and was assigned to a company, and a barracks. The following day, I was told that they had no need for an I and E NCO at the time, but they could use a mail clerk, so I became the company’s mail clerk, and non-functioning I and E NCO. Everyone in my unit was helpful and pleasant.
My responsibility was to pick up the mail each day, and distribute it. I had access to the company sedan to get the mail. Unfortunately, I really didn’t know how to drive, and I didn’t have a driver’s license. My buddies couldn’t believe it. I did learn the rudiments of driving in 1952, but not having driven, they had gotten rusty. My buddies got a kick out of teaching me how to drive—on the army sedan. I stalled a lot, (it was a standard shift) but eventually I got the hang of it. One of my teachers was a GI from New England whose name was John Raynor. He grew up on a farm, was tall, blond, quiet-spoken and frugal. He had a station wagon on which he replaced the axles so that he could use truck tires, which lasted longer. He also drove in his stocking feet so that he could better control the pressure on the accelerator, saving gas. He was a great driving instructor.
Camp Rucker was in Southern Alabama, between the towns of Ozark and Enterprise. It was big, and it was opened in 1942 as an Army Aviation School. During World War II, there were some 40,000 troops there. It was deactivated after the war, then reopened when we got involved with Korea, closed down again in June 1954, and reopened in August, just about the time I got there. It became Fort Rucker the following year, after I left. A few weeks after I arrived, I began planning for Sylvia join me, and we would live off post. I looked around for an apartment and for a used car. I found both, and Sylvia arranged to move down, leaving our apartment in the Bronx for an apartment in Enterprise. Whatever arrangements I had to make, I did. Sylvia flew into Montgomery, I picked her up in our new car, we drove to our new apartment, and we renewed our life together.
It was wonderful being together again. Like a second honeymoon. We made friends with several other married couples, and didn’t have a care in the world. I would go off to my job as mail clerk, and Sylvia would play house, and visit with the other army wives. We became close to another couple: Chuck and Jo Lantz. They were from Detroit and were very much like us, with similar interests. We found ourselves at Camp Rucker and managed to make the best of our situation, and connected with other army couples.
On one occasion, several couples drove down to the Panama City beach, and we all had a wonderful time, swimming and picnicking on the beach. (Sylvia reminded me that we didn’t have such a great time because we planned to sleep on the beach, but gnats or flies drove us off the beach, and we checked into a nearby motel.) One of the couples was very young, perhaps 19 or 20, and they had just returned from Japan. As we were sitting around talking, the sweet young thing observed, that “in Japan, women carry for 10 months.” The rest of us looked quizzically at her, and a few of us said that people, whether they are Japanese, African, or American, carry for nine months. No, she insisted, Japanese women carry for 10 months. She knew this because they had been in Japan and that is what she learned. Aha! I exclaimed. The Japanese must have a lunar calendar, which would make it 9 ½ months, which could be considered 10. We didn’t pursue it.
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, “The High Holy Days” were coming, and Sylvia and I wanted to go to services. There were no Synagogues in Ozark or Enterprise, but there was a Reform Temple in the town of Dothan, about 20 miles away. I took leave, and that is where we went.
The members of the congregation were very welcoming. I was in uniform and was even given an Aliyah. They did not have a regular Rabbi, but imported one from New York. He was their regular High Holidays Rabbi. Sylvia was surprised to see how affectionate he was toward the women members. No Rabbi we had known would hug a woman congregant. They wouldn’t even shake their hand, but our experience was limited to Orthodox Synagogues.
We enjoyed the services, and even liked the fact that there was more English than we were used to. But what really stood out for me was the Shofar-blowing. I had never heard the Shofar blown so well. Every note was perfect, loud, clear, and the final note, “the tekia gadola” was held longer than I had ever heard. After the service, I went over to the Shofar-blower to compliment him and to tell him how impressed I was. He was an older man with a Southern drawl. He thanked me, and explained that he has played trumpet and bugle for more than 40 years so he should know how to blow a Shofar. Then he added, with a touch of sadness, his children are members of a Conservative Congregation in Montgomery, and his Shofar blowing is not kosher enough for them.
I was driving to Camp and back on a learner’s permit. Finally, the day came for me to take my driver’s test. I felt fairly confident, and drove to the equivalent of the State motor vehicle bureau in Enterprise. I was met by a very serious tester with a clip board. I took the written exam, and then he had me get behind the wheel, and sat down next to me. He started giving me orders: drive to the end of the street; make a left turn; drive two blocks and make a right turn; stop in the middle of the next block and make a U turn; park behind the car on your right; pull out and put the car in reverse and drive it to the end of the block. I was very conscious about looking in the rear view mirror, and executing all the hand signals, but driving in reverse was something else. He wanted me to drive backward at the same rate of speed that I drive forward. I failed my driver’s test. They are tough in Alabama. And they don’t cotton to Northerners.
Speaking of “cotton,” the area around Camp Rucker had been cotton country with large cotton plantations, but they were destroyed by the boll weevel. Thanks to George Washington Carver, who discovered lots of uses for peanuts, stimulating a demand, the farmers of Enterprise switched from cotton to peanuts, and did very well. So what did they do? They put up a monument to the boll weevel.
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Army Memories,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 27, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/128.