It was the second general order, i.e. seeing to the welfare of your soldiers, that I would have significant problems with. The only person in the section that believed another layer of sandbags was warranted proved to be Mickey. We could have ordered everybody to help and made somewhat shorter work of this task, but this would have undermined my teamwork efforts. The result was Mickey and I would begin filling sandbags early in the morning, before it got unbearably hot. We added this third or fourth layer to the FDC first, and then moved to the personnel bunkers. Each day, after fifteen minutes to ½ hour or so, the rest of the guys would show up and assist us for awhile until we decided to stop. This was accomplished amid much complaining about the uselessness of the task.
One morning, I’d had had enough of the complaints and asked the most vociferous, why he was making the effort? He answered they all felt embarrassed Mickey was the only one to help. I told him he was under no obligation, he could retire and we wouldn’t hold it against him. He answered that he thought of that but realized if the bunker was ever hit by the larger rocket, and they survived because of my extra layer of bags, I’d remind him that I saved his butt the rest of his life. He couldn’t take that. My problem, I didn’t want to lose anyone due to laziness, or any other foreseeable reason. Mickey and I had a conversation while filling sandbags; I remember informing him that my goal was to get all of them home safely.
Time spent working with Mickey brought us together. We had some things in common, close ties to family coming to mind first. His parents used to record conversations on a cassette and send this through the mail, He had a recorder with him to listen and record his thoughts to send back. I was impressed by this new use of technology. He would screen these “letters” first, and then sometimes allow us to listen. This was a treat because we were all homesick. Hearing the love and concern was an added dimension to the letters we all received.
I would sometimes loiter around the edge when the chaplain came by to lead services. Mickey noticed this odd behavior because I never stayed for the full service; I’d wander off after awhile. He questioned me about this. I explained I was busy and didn’t wish to disturb the service when I left. He saw me do this again and came to me somewhat timidly and said “Lieutenant, there’s more to this than you’re letting on, tell me what the problem is.” I confessed that I was a bad Christian. He didn’t buy that. I told him that I was a warrior. He allowed that warriors can also be Christian; the Bible doesn’t separate the two. I knew all that, but finally had to admit the glee I felt when destroying the enemy was too much to ask Jesus to understand. It was proving to be an embarrassment at church. He helped me some. I still don’t attend church. Mickey said the Lord wouldn’t hold it against me for feeling pride in a job well done. I settled in to attempt just that.
