By Bernie Tatro

     During the Coronavirus pandemic, classmates from Cadet Company E4 kept in touch with monthly Zoom meetings.  During one meeting there was a discussion of the Honor Code: “A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.”  The discussion went on for some time.  It reminded me of my own experience with the Code.  I did not bring up my “incident” because the meeting was already running long, and we didn’t have a paid Zoom account.

     The discussion jogged my memory, and I emailed the two guys I roomed with at the time to confirm my memory.  Here is part of the message:

“One evening early in Plebe (Freshman) year, we were all in the room studying when one of my two Plebe roommates walked by and noticed I was studying the wrong chapter (obviously I was already goat* material). I switched to the correct chapter.  This led to a discussion among the three of us something like: “Wait a minute, is this unauthorized assistance, i.e., cheating?”  Fearing an early end to my cadet career, I turned myself in to the company Honor Rep (each Cadet company had an Honor Representative). Don’t remember who it was, but he was napping on the top bunk when I reported to him.  I explained the situation, and he responded to the effect that so long as no one helped me solve problems or complete the assignment, there was no cheating.

     The (thankfully) brief concern about being thrown out for an Honor violation has stuck with me.  That was my only brush with the Honor Code, and I managed to maintain my position in the bottom 6% of the class.  Or the top 94%, to put a more positive spin on it.

     I still have the 1964 -1965 USMA catalogue which I received in the mail as I was considering attending West Point.  When I thought about writing this story, I referred to the catalog to confirm that we were actually exposed to the Honor Code long before R-Day (Reception Day, July 1, 1965, the day we entered West Point as the Class of 1969).

In the 192-page catalog, there was a 2-page summary of the Honor Code — on pages 14 & 15 — before Education and Training that was discussed on page 16!  

     Our Class was exposed to the Honor Code early and often.  The Honor Code was addressed in detail in our Bugle Notes (an information book, most of which was to be memorized by Plebes and recited on demand during Plebe year.)

I’m pretty sure we had formal and informal Honor Code presentations or discussions early in Beast Barracks.  It was not something we took lightly.  Hence, turning myself in when in doubt of a violation.

      Finally, I should point out that the Honor Code was not only a cadet responsibility.  It’s a lifelong commitment to living honorably.

* Goat: the last person in the class academically.  Collectively, Goats are the bottom half of the class.

Late in February 1970 I made my first trans-Atlantic trip, reporting to the 3^rd Armored Division in what was then West Germany. For most of the next 18 months I was assigned as a Platoon Leader to 1^st Bn/36 Infantry at a remote Brigade-size base called Ayers Kaserne, located in Kirchgöns, about 30 miles from Frankfurt. Our late classmate Dick Luecke, and classmate Bob King (C1) were among classmates assigned to the same battalion.

As part of the 3^rd Armored Division, we utilized the M113 Armored Personnel Carrier (called “APC’s” or “tracks”). Maintenance consumed much of the daily training schedule. It became pretty boring. Supposedly, we were at the end of the supply chain: priority for almost everything was Vietnam, South Korea, CONUS (Continental U.S.) …and, eventually, Ayers Kaserne. So, keeping equipment in running order was a challenge.

But even at the end of the supply line, there were “haves” and “have nots”. When M16’s finally reached us, we turned in our M14’s and began M16 familiarization. A rifle maintenance issue quickly reared its ugly head. We were an Infantry battalion with no M16 rifle cleaning patches.

Note: For those unfamiliar with firearm maintenance, patches are critical for applying solvent and oil to keep the weapon clean and operational. Fortunately, I located a classmate in a Field Artillery battery who had M16 patches and was willing to share with his friendly neighborhood grunts.

All this is to provide some supply and maintenance background for the main event:

Later in 1970 I was assigned as Weapons Platoon Leader. On company field exercises, the Weapons Platoon typically acted as Aggressors. Since we were “The Bad Guys”, we could take liberties with uniforms. While the Rifle Companies wore helmets during exercises, we could wear the always-fashionable baseball-style cap, similar to the headgear we wore with fatigues as cadets.

On one such exercise the Company Commander ordered me to take a few of my guys and set up an ambush. We piled into a nearby Jeep, threw our weapons and gear in the trailer it hauled, and took off to complete our mission.

We were making good time driving on a 2-lane back country road. The only other vehicle on the road was a Volkswagen Bus being driven by a German man. Apparently, he was in a hurry because he followed us rather closely.

We reached our turn-off on the left, an open dirt area where we could pick up the trail into the woods. Our driver made a left turn. I never found out if he signaled or not, but it would not have mattered: the taillight was inoperative. Seeing no signal, the tailgating VW bus did not react quickly enough to avoid a collision. He struck the trailer while we were mid-turn, initiating a series of events:

• The Jeep and trailer spun and turned 180 degrees;
• Continuing into a complete 360-degree roll, landing right side up in the dirt area;
• During the roll, the aluminum supports which normally hold up the soft top crumpled and;
• The windshield collapsed and the glass shattered.

Recovering from the roll, I think I had two nearly simultaneous concerns:

1. Are my soldiers okay?
2. Why can’t I see?

Addressing the second question, I did exactly the wrong thing:  I rubbed my eyes. Since Jeeps at the time did not feature safety glass, I had fine glass particles in my eyes. Fortunately, my vision cleared with no apparent damage. Apparently, the windshield only shattered on the passenger side because my driver did not experience any harm from glass.

As for my soldiers, thanks to World War II technology, all were okay. Allow me to explain:  All but one of the guys were wearing baseball caps. The exception happened to be the tallest man in the Jeep. He was wearing his WW II-style helmet, usually referred to as a steel pot. He proudly showed me the black streak on his helmet where his head had scraped blacktop during the roll. He and the others were unhurt.

When we eventually made it back to Ayers Kaserne, I checked in at the clinic. The doctor examined my eyes and determined that there were still glass particles present. He put something colored into each eye. Under light, the glass was visible against the color. Using what appeared to be a thin glass rod, he probed each eyeball and removed the remaining glass particles. A half century later, I can report that there was no lasting damage. I can also report that I never again thought maintenance was boring.

Unfortunately, that was not my only Jeep-related incident. In 1971 I made my first trans-Pacific trip. By 1972 I was with my second unit in Vietnam, a battalion of the 525^th Military Intelligence Group, stationed at a small camp on the perimeter of the Tan Son Nhut Airport. The unit had a maintenance stand down, taking all vehicles out of service for required maintenance. The Motor Pool was at a separate location. I drove my jeep over and got a ride back to camp. A few hours later the jeep was ready. I got a ride back to the motor pool, picked up the jeep, and started driving.

Most of the road around Tan Son Nhut was paved. Since our camp was at a remote location, the paved road eventually ended, and a dirt road began.

The road was empty in the direction I was heading, so the jeep was moving at a pretty good pace. I slowed down to transition to the dirt road. Just as the jeep went from paved to dirt, the front wheel on the driver’s side parted company with the jeep; it went left while the rest of the jeep swerved right. Since my speed was reduced, I was able to brake the jeep without any further damage to it (or me).

I walked the rest of the way to the camp and called the motor pool. They came out, towed the jeep away, and made repairs. Later, I was informed that a cotter pin had been omitted from the wheel assembly, and that was supposedly the cause of this mishap. Once again, a small part made a big difference.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Since leaving the Army I have owned two Jeeps. Both had Roll Bars and Safety Glass and were meticulously maintained, including tire rotation. No shortages of turning lights or cotter pins have been noted.

During the final months of my Vietnam tour I was assigned to a support battalion at Camp Debeau on the Tan Son Nhut Airbase perimeter outside Saigon. Most officers lived in a Saigon hotel, but I was one of five who lived in two man “hooches”. Since American involvement in the war was winding down, the other occupant of my hooch was not replaced when he returned to the States. I had it all to myself.

A previous occupant added a sign identifying the hooch as the “Saigon Hilton”. Like the other two hooches it was a small structure surrounded by “blast barrels,” 55-gallon drums filled with sand to absorb shrapnel.

 

(Note blast barrels around each hooch.)

One of Camp DeBeau’s attractions was a pack of semi-wild dogs. These dogs knew that if they appeared outside the mess hall at the end of the day, they would receive any leftovers. You could set your watch by those dogs.

My favorite thing about the dogs was that they would bark at any Vietnamese who entered the camp. As the only Infantry officer in the battalion, I was responsible for defense of the camp and felt that the dogs added a bit of security.

So, it was with some concern when in the middle of the night I was awoken by barking. It seemed to be coming from the far side of the camp, near the generator – a likely *sapper objective. Soon, the barking got louder as the dogs charged in the direction of my hooch, clearly in hot pursuit. As was the case with everyone except the guard, I was unarmed. I took some comfort knowing that about 50 feet away the officer and non-commissioned officer of the day were in the headquarters building and were armed.

There wasn’t much time to wonder what to do as the intruder jumped on the blast barrels and leapt on my roof. The dogs surrounded my hooch and the barking reached a frenzy. Clearly panicked, I heard the intruder’s footsteps run across my roof as he tried to leap to safety. As he leapt, the dogs went wild – and were suddenly quiet. A few sniffs and huffs, and then they dispersed.

A quick look out the door, and I ran to headquarters. The officer was asleep in a cot, and the non-commissioned officer had his head down on a desk, also asleep. I woke him up, but obviously he had heard nothing.

The dilemma now was whether or not to sound the alarm.  Had the dogs vanquished the intruder, or might he return with reinforcements? For reasons I can’t explain (or remember), I did not sound the alarm.

In the morning I walked around the hooch to look for signs of the enemy. I found his body behind the hooch, between the wall and the blast barrels. Clearly his leap had ended badly, as his neck was obviously broken. One less cat in Vietnam.

*Technically, a sapper is a military engineer.  In Vietnam the term was used to indicate someone who could infiltrate through the defensive line, disarming booby traps and possibly placing explosives.