The section chief, introduced himself as Mickey Wilson, and he took a moment to introduce the other crewmembers. I noticed that they were uncomfortable for some reason in my presence. Being the way I am, I figured it was because they didn’t know me. I asked some questions concerning the layout and enemy activity stuff, figuring these military-type questions would break the ice. They were obviously becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, even though I had sat down and presented a very relaxed demeanor to them. I was perplexed why they all were so stiffened by a little 2nd LT when Mickey told me I would have to leave. I asked why? He explained that the Battery Commander had told him I wasn’t allowed in the FDC. I apologized for the intrusion and explained I was not informed of the restriction. I would confirm so with the Captain.
I went to the B.C. and related what had just occurred. He confirmed he had given the order, and apologized he had failed to inform me. I explained that much of the requisition problems would require time on the radio and they were in the FDC. He ordered me to have my clerk tend to that part of the job. I informed him that the clerk was unfamiliar with radio procedures and had no training in using a radio. He told me that the guys in the FDC would help and see to whatever my clerk needed done.
This series of events confirmed to me that the order originated elsewhere. Someone up the chain of command didn’t want me in the FDC at all. I informed the Commander that the guys in the FDC had been respectful under the circumstances. He said that he expected nothing less; they were a good group of soldiers. This order would remain in effect for my first month and a half to two months while I was in Bravo. The next time I went into the FDC was at another firebase and I was temporarily filling in for the FDO, who was on R&R.
By the end of that first week, Sgt. C. had departed on his big adventure. I was attending to paperwork in the mess hall after lunch one day, effectively making me the last one to leave, except for the cooks and mess Sergeant. I walked out into the bright sun to witness a scene that needed my immediate attention. I saw one soldier, a Spec. 4, (African American) pointing his .45 at a group of other soldiers, maybe ten or twelve. On the other side of them, maybe twenty or thirty yards distance, two other soldiers were in a lopsided fight. One (a black Pvt.) had a 2X4, maybe eight to ten foot long, chasing another guy, a Spec. 4, (Caucasian) around in circles, taking whacks at him at every opportunity. The Spec. 4 couldn’t outrun the guy with the 2X4 so he was using the unwieldy nature of the club to dodge the whacks, but I could see he was tiring.
I instinctively reacted by approaching the guy with the gun from the side and asked what was going on. He reacted fiercely by throwing the pistol into my face with the barked command “BACK OFF!” My mind went into compadre mode. (Wow that looks like an 8in Howitzer’s business end! It doesn’t have enough lands and grooves to be an 8in! Where’d the bullet hit?!) I found myself flying backwards to do as ordered, feeling my face to find the hole in it.
I landed realizing that he had not shot me. I didn’t want to antagonize him. The only response that came to mind in that split second was the memory of a racist joke, so I answered “YES SIR!” when I landed. I guess he’d heard the same joke, and wasn’t impressed so he began chastising me for calling him “SIR”. He informed me that I’m supposed to be the “Sir”. I now realized that he didn’t want to shoot me, as long as I gave him some room. That left me with the original problem of stopping the fight and coming up with a strategy before somebody was seriously injured. He continued his ridicule of me for a bit but finally tired because I was not responding - unusual for me.
