SSG REED

SSG REED

By Mark Reed

This story is prompted by some shared conversations and memories between me and some of my vet buddies about our DI (Drill Instructor) in the USMC or Drill Sergeant in the U.S. Army.

I was drafted and inducted into the U.S. Army on June 26, 1969 at the old Sears building on Ponce de Leon Avenue in Atlanta. After being sworn in, we were herded onto a bus and driven to Fort Campbell, Kentucky. We pulled in about 2:00 AM in the morning and were rudely “welcomed” into the service of our country. That “welcome” is depicted pretty much accurately in ever movie you will see that has such a scene.

We arrived at Fort Campbell in the middle of a Basic Training cycle, so after being issued our new uniforms and other equipment, shown our new accommodations and had our heads buzz cut, for the next week we were put to work on police calls (picking up cigarette butts) and KP (Kitchen Police). They didn’t know exactly what to do with us sixty new soldiers. At the end of the week, we were crowded onto another bus and ferried to Fort Knox, Kentucky, where we all thought we would be guarding the Gold Depository James Bond Saved from Goldfinger. No Pussy Galore around, at least not that we could see.

When we piled off the bus at Fort Knox, they formed us up in rows and asked if any of us had R.O.T.C. experience. Me and four other guys held up our hands. We were ordered to the front. The Senior Drill SGT looked at me and said I was “Platoon Guide” (Acting SGT) and the other four were made Squad Leaders (Acting Corporals).

We were attached to D-19-5, a training company. Company D consisted of four Platoons, and they had been in training for a week by the time we arrived. We were formed up as 5^th Platoon. We were behind the curve. The other Platoons had been at it a week and we were an add-on. We immediately became “The 8-Ball Platoon.” That was the designation for the least proficient Platoon. We caught all the “s–t details.”

Since we were an “add-on” Platoon, there was no Drill Sergeant on hand to take us over. Two assistant Drill Sergeants were pulled from other Platoons and put over us. It was their first assignment as Drill Sergeants. They were learning as they went, as were we, and we all suffered for it. We were so screwed.

A week later, we showed up back at the barracks to be met by this big hulking black SSG who had just returned from a combat tour in Vietnam. He was wearing brand new fatigues, just like ours, without any rank or insignia sewn on, identical to ours. But he was wearing the big wide brimmed “Smokey The Bear” Drill Sergeant hat, which gave no doubt that he was the Drill Sergeant. Fact of the matter was, with the hat on, he looked exactly like Smokey The Bear. Guess what his nickname became immediately?

He formed us up in the street outside the barracks, while the other four Platoons lounged around watching the “8-Ball Platoon” get reamed out by their new Drill Sergeant. He told us his name was SSG Reed. He said he didn’t want any of us to know his first name, because he did not give a s–t about any of us and we were not his friends. He called out in a loud scream, “Guide, front and center.” That be me. I ran up and stood at attention in front of him. He got up in my face and proceeded to bemoan the fact that he had a sorry ass white boy as his “Guide.” For the record here, he never called me anything except “Guide” for the next two months. He asked me where I was from, and when he found out I was from Atlanta, he started cussing and swearing saying he couldn’t believe his “Guide” was a cracker red neck. Not exactly a pleasant introduction.

SSG Reed proceeded to inform us that our easy Basic Training was over. Easy? Every one of us was going through the worst hell of our life up to that point, and being told that we had it easy till now brought out a collective groan. He said he did not spend the last year of his life with little yellow bastards trying to kill him, to come back and be saddled with a bunch of f–k ups like us who were the permanent “8-Ball Platoon.” He said all that was going to change. He said by the end of Basic we were going to be “Best Platoon.” He said he was going to do everything short of killing us to make sure that happened.

If we thought we had it bad up to that point, we were about to find out that SSG Reed was a man of his word. Our hell we thought we were going through up to that point, we found out was only purgatory. Hell started with SSG Reed. I received the brunt of it. He thought he was funny, too. At mail call, when a soldier would get a letter from his wife, SSG Reed would ask if the soldier had any naked photos of his wife. The soldier would say, “No, Drill Sergeant!” He would always say, “Want to buy some?” He would laugh his butt off every time he said that. We heard it a hundred times if we heard it once.

One morning as we formed up in formation, we realized that we were missing a man. I had his Squad Leader go to the Senior Drill Sergeant’s orderly room to report a man missing. Not good. A.W.O.L. They court-martial you for that sort of thing. No sooner did SSG Reed get word that one of his Platoon was missing, he stormed out to formation screaming, “Guide!” As I ran up and stood at attention in front of him, he proceeded to cuss me out for allowing one of my soldiers to desert, as if I had anything to do with it. He said I reflected badly on him and that if I didn’t get my act together, I would live to regret it. He then announced to the Platoon that I was an example of the sort of NCO that would be “fragged” in Vietnam. If you don’t know what being “fragged” means, look it up.

One day at the rifle range, he screamed out, “Guide!” I had a moment of weakness and was fed up with his BS directed at me. I screamed back at him, “What?” Silence. The entire Company turned their head to watch what happened. SSG Reed ran over to me, got in my face and screamed, “Drop and give me 100, Guide!” That meant to drop to the ground and give him 100 push-ups. When you did this, you had to count them off, “One, Drill Sergeant. Two, Drill Sergeant. Three, Drill Sergeant…” When you finished, you had to yell, “Permission to stand, Drill Sergeant.” He refused, telling me to, “Hold the position.” I held the up push-up position for 15 minutes, before he finally let me stand. I was being silently applauded by my Company.

Why he never replaced me as Platoon Guide, I’ll never really know, besides my suspicion that deep in his soul he knew that I was doing a good job. Every other Drill Sergeant in the Company liked me. Not SSG Reed.

When I was going through Basic, like most everyone who goes through it, you become in the best shape of your life. I was never what you would call an athlete, not having played sports very much as a kid. But I could run forever and I was fast and mobile. Do you remember the obstacle, can’t remember the name, which consisted of a dug pit you had to jump over and then figure eight around waist high metal bars, back and forth a few times? No one in the Company was better than me at that. Whenever we found ourselves situated next to another Company, SSG Reed would call out a Drill Sergeant from the other Company and challenge him to pull his best man for a competition with his best man on this obstacle. He did this a dozen times. I was never beaten.

At graduation ceremonies, we wore our dress green uniforms. SSG Reed did not have a plastic name tag with REED on it. He told me to give him mine. He never gave it back.

The final day at D-19-5 came with everyone being given their orders assigning them to their next duty station and the assignment of their new MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). As SSG Reed called each man out to give him his orders, he would read the MOS out loud. When he came to me, he called out, “Guide!” As I ran up to attention in front of him, he got in my face and started to laugh. He said, “How appropriate, Guide. 11 Bravo. You are going to Advanced Infantry Training at Tiger Land at Fort Polk, Louisiana. Try not to get fragged in Vietnam.”

Believe it or not, I was glad to be leaving D-19-5, even for Tiger Land, just to be rid of SSG Reed. By the way, 5^th Platoon ended up “Best Platoon.”

THE RINGS

THE RINGS

By Mark Reed

This is a story about gifts. Like many of you, probably, I am more comfortable with giving than I am with receiving. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a gift as much as anyone, maybe more so, from a sentimental standpoint. Those of you who know me, know I am a sentimental fool. I have always felt the thought behind a gift was more important than the gift itself. The monetary value of a gift, in and of itself, is not what makes it special. Some things, even if there is an intrinsic value, have a value far greater than money and in fact are priceless.

I have numerous examples of these sorts of things in my life, some of which I will write about separately. This is a story about rings.

My first ring was a friendship ring. I was maybe thirteen-years old. I gave it to an early girlfriend. It turned her finger green. She didn’t keep it long, returning it to me, whereupon I wore it from time to time. It turned my finger green, too.

My next ring was my 1964 Campbell High School Senior Ring – mine was white gold with a green stone with the Olde English C imbedded in the stone. I remember getting it the summer after my junior year. My buddies, Richard Ronald, Wayne and I took a road trip to Tybee Island in the Morgan Pontiac convertible. We flashed our rings at all the girls, letting them know we were not underclassmen nerds…we were High School Seniors. I gave that ring to a High School sweetheart and she wore it around her neck on a chain. It did not turn her finger green. I still have that ring, sentimental fool that I am. It is in a manly little jewelry box I had back then, and it is accompanied by some odds and ends jewelry items boys collect – cuff links, an ID bracelet, and some other totally worthless things to all but me.

My next ring was my University of Georgia 1968 Class Ring. It was yellow gold with a red stone imbedded with the Sigma Pi Greek letters. I didn’t graduate in 1968, stretching out my college career an extra year. There were a couple of reasons for that expanded college education. One, I was not a very good student, and two, there was a little thing called Vietnam going on that behooved you to stay in school as long as you could if at all possible. I graduated after Winter Quarter in 1969, getting my diploma between the hedges in June, just before reporting for duty in the U.S. Army. My class ring? As a celebration of graduating, Richard Morgan and I took our girlfriends on a trip to Myrtle Beach, SC. It was there I dove into the freezing Spring ocean and my class ring slipped off my finger, possibly becoming someone else’s buried treasure. I hope someone found it. As a side note, some years later, my parents gave me a replacement class ring, which was way cool. Sad to report, it was stolen many years later, and the John Roberts Company, who made the rings for UGA, had destroyed the casts for that class year, so it was never replaced.

When I was in the Army, stationed in Bangkok, I had a gold signet ring made for myself. It has my initials, WMR, engraved on the top. Unfortunately, my fingers have gotten larger and I can no longer wear it. Maybe I will get it resized one day.

My next ring, one of the more important ones in my life, was my wedding band given to me by my wife, Michelle, when we married on October 6, 1973. It was a simple gold band. I wore it until I jammed my finger badly, just barely getting it off my finger before it became so swollen the ring would have to be cut off. After the injury, the ring would never go back on my finger. I planned to have it resized, but Michelle surprised me with a replacement wedding band – the Cartier Trinity ring from Tiffany, with three (gold, white and pink) interlocking gold bands. As I got older (and fatter), that ring no longer fit either.

When Michelle and I renewed our vows on our 25^th wedding anniversary, she gave me an antique silver wedding band. Not only that, but for Christmas a couple of years ago, she also bought me a new Cartier Trinity ring. I am definitely fixed with wedding bands, blessed guy that I am.

When my dad passed away in 1981, mom gave me his wedding band, which I had resized to fit me (he had huge hands). Some years later, I gave it to my sister Cynthia for Christmas. She really appreciated it. She loved her daddy.

Mom also gave me dad’s officer ring from WWII. He was a B-17 bomber pilot flying in combat over Europe in 1944. His ring was silver with a black stone. It had a B-17 on one side. I wear it on special occasions that have to do with the military, and whenever the mood strikes me.

As you can see, it turns out that I am a ring guy. Go figure. I don’t wear them all at the same time, or else I’d probably have the nickname Ringo.

Fast forward to 2014. As some of you are aware, over the years I have been very involved as a volunteer with Sigma Pi Fraternity, International, both with my local Alpha-Phi Chapter at the University of Georgia and the International organization. I have served in various capacities as an advisor, a Chapter Director, a Province Archon, and committee member and Chairman of various International committees over the last forty-five years.

In 2014, Sigma Pi Fraternity, founded in 1897, bestowed on me the highest honor the Fraternity has to offer – The Founder’s Award, given to me for my service to God and man. I was number ninety-six in the history of Sigma Pi to receive it. I joined some pretty good company with Astronaut Wally Schirra and fellow UGA alumni Lewis Grizzard. I can’t begin to tell you how honored and humbled I was to receive the award, something I never thought I would receive. To commemorate my receiving the award, Michelle commissioned a ring maker in London, England to make me a gold, one of a kind, signet ring with the Sigma Pi Crest engraved into the top. I wear it on my pinkie. It is a beautiful ring and I treasure it.

Shortly after Michelle gave me the ring, I had lunch with one of my best friends, Richard Morgan. He and I, including his twin brother Ronald, have been close friends since childhood. Richard and Ronald are also Sigma Pi brothers from UGA.

At lunch that day, I showed Richard my new ring Michelle had given me. As we talked about it and rings in general, he shared with me that he also had a Sigma Pi signet ring given to him in 1966 by our Sigma Pi Sweetheart he was lavaliered to at the time. I remembered that ring and asked him if he still wore it. He said that he had just about worn it out over the years, with it finally no longer fitting his ring finger. He wore it as a pinky ring from time to time, but Richard is not a pinkie ring kinda guy. I say that with a smile.

I told him that he should get it resized and start wearing it again. He said he just might do that since it was special to him. At another lunch he brought the ring to show to me. It was old, tarnished and obviously well worn. I tried it on, a perfect fit he remarked, and as I admired it, I told him he had to get it resized and start wearing it again. He put it in his pocket and that was that.

In the spring of 2015, a group of us guys held our annual guys trip to Ronald’s cabin on Lake Nottely near Blairsville, Georgia, something we have been doing for a dozen years. We are guys from Smyrna who all grew up with each other from Elementary, High School and College. We take this opportunity to fire high velocity weapons, drink a cocktail or three, smoke cigars, tell old stories (tell lies?) and enjoy each other’s company for a testosterone filled weekend.

As we were sitting on the porch smoking cigars, Richard, who was sitting near me, reached out and placed his signet ring on the side table between us. No one noticed since there were several animated conversations going on. The ring was all shiny and new looking. I immediately knew that he had followed my advice and had it resized and polished up with the intent to start wearing it again. I picked it up and admired it.

I reached out to hand it back to him, and he shook his head, saying, “No, now it is yours.” I was completely shocked by this totally unexpected gift. I was speechless, which is unusual for me. I was touched beyond words. I glanced over at Ronald, who had been observing the exchange, and he smiled and gave me the thumbs up, obviously knowing what Richard planned. Shortly after this, Ronald said to Richard and me, “The ring will be appreciated and worn by you. It’s in the right place. Not to mention it’s a perfect fit.”

No one else was aware of what just happened. We all sat there sipping our drinks and smoking our cigars, with me wearing my new ring. Richard gave it to me with no fanfare or intent for anyone to know what he had so generously given to a friend. Other than he, Ronald, my family and I, and a few special Sigma Pi friends, no one knows about this. The other day Richard and I were talking on the phone and he asked if I was wearing my ring, which I was. He joked that when I tried it on that day at lunch, since it fit me perfectly, he decided he could save the cost of having it resized by giving it to me. We had a laugh at that. It was then that I decided to write this story. Obviously, I cleared it with Richard first, not wanting to embarrass him by telling of his generosity towards me. He did not do it to get credit or garner attention. It was just a gift from one friend to another. It is now one of my most prized possessions. Thanks, Richard.

4th OF JULY, 1956

4^TH OF JULY, 1956

By Mark Reed

I remember the 4^th of July, 1956 like it was yesterday. You are probably asking yourself how in the world I can remember a specific 4^th of July sixty-years ago. Understandable, since growing up in Smyrna during the 50’s and 60’s, all the 4^th of July celebrations were very similar.

They all included homemade peach ice cream at the Reed house. All my buddies on Bank Street would help out with the hand cranking of the ice cream urn, because they knew that as reward for their labor, a big bowl of Jennie Reed’s World Famous Peach Ice Cream would be presented to all crankers first.

There was always a BBQ at the American Legion, where before and after eating, the boys would all climb on the howitzer cannons at the entrance. Of course, we would all clamor for a ride on the Fire Engine, and the lucky kid who got to sit up front with the Chief would get to turn on the siren.

The Legion also put on the most wonderful fireworks display in the whole wide world. Lying on the Howitzer barrel watching the explosions in the sky, you could imagine being in on the D-Day landing or some other glorious battle. We thought all battles were glorious…that was before we grew up and experienced our own. Not so glorious.

But Independence Day 1956 was special for a very important reason. This was the year that dad told me I was old enough to have fireworks of my own (folly, Mr. Reed, sheer folly). Dad came home and gave a wide-eyed nine-year old the mother lode of fireworks. I’m not talking sparklers or roman candles. Those were for kids. I’m talking about Cherry Bombs. This is when a Cherry Bomb was a Cherry Bomb. Not the lame imitation they sell today. These bad boys would blow off your fingers if you weren’t careful. They will also blow a metal mailbox open like a sardine can. They could also blow a urinal off the wall. That’s what they tell me.

I was the envy of every boy on Bank Street. They all tagged along with me suggesting various things we could blow up. I seem to remember most items chosen for demolition were dolls owned by their sisters, certainly not mine. It was especially impressive to bury one in the ground with just the fuse sticking out, and creating our very own artillery shell crater. We learned you had to be pretty far away from the blast zone unless you wanted dirt in your eyes.

There was not a dog or cat to be seen in the neighborhood. If anyone ever doubts the intelligence of animals, just notice their scarcity when pre-teen boys have Cherry Bombs. While the Cherry Bombs were the crème de la crème of my fireworks stash, I also had these long strips of a hundred firecrackers strung in a row. I also had individual packs of firecrackers. You could open the package and unravel the fuses to have individual firecrackers for the inevitable firecracker fight that we promised our parents we would not have. Interestingly enough, no one ventured near me to toss a firecracker my way. They all knew I was packing the big boys.

Dad had given me what I remember being a leather shoulder bag, sort of like a woman’s purse, except this one was a brown heavy duty leather with a flap. He brought it home from WWII. I think it must have been used for carrying official dispatches and the like, although dad told me when he was in the Army Air Corp, he carried his .45 in it when he wasn’t wearing it. It was pretty roomy. The leather brief was where I carried my fireworks supply, slung over my shoulder and across my chest for easy access. I had a big box of wooden matches to light the fuses. I thought about stealing, er borrowing one of dad’s Zippo lighters, but I did not want to press my luck.

Fast forward to July 5, 1956. It was the middle of the day and I was out roaming the neighborhood looking for something to blow up. I still had all my fingers, too. I headed up Bank Street to my buddy Max Bacon’s house. Max wasn’t home. Yes, this is the Max Bacon who grew up to become Mayor of Smyrna. For a long time.

There was a vacant lot on the corner diagonally across from the Bacon house. Right up the side street was what we all called the Little Store. I seem to remember it being run by a Mr. Reece, but memory may be playing tricks on me. I decided to step outside the box and do something really outrageous with some of my Cherry Bombs. While they were precious and only used one at a time, what if I somehow were able to tie the fuses together on four of them? Holy cow, what an explosion that would be. I happened to have a sturdy rubber band I had pilfered from class at Smyrna Elementary. I sat on the curb and carefully wrapped the rubber band tightly around the fuses of four of those bad boys.

Once they were ready, I had to make a decision on what to blow up. I didn’t dare blow up the Bacon mailbox, besides, one would do that job – so they tell me. I decided to excavate a small cave in the ditch bank of the vacant lot. I pretended it was one of the Jap caves on Iwo Jima. After the proper excavation, I carefully situated the four Cherry Bombs in the cave and packed the red clay tightly around them, leaving only the tip of the fuses sticking out. I was giddy with anticipation.

I pulled out the big box of wooden matches and struck it across the box into a flame. I leaned over and lit the fuse. It started shooting massive sparks from the fuse as all four lit at once. I clamored up the bank to watch the explosion from above, safe from the direction of the red clay shrapnel, which would probably blow across the street toward the Evans house.

No sooner had I reached the summit of the ditch bank to safety in order to observe my explosive demolition skills, I noticed a car coming down the street from town. My heart ran cold. It was not just any car. It was bad enough that a car was entering the blast zone, but this particular car was one of Smyrna’s finest…a police car. There was no way to unlight the fuses. There was no sense in running, because I already had eye contact with the police officer driving the police cruiser. For some reason, I remember how shiny, clean and new it looked. The police officer knew my dad and me. They were friends. He actually smiled at me. As he drove directly in front of me, with my cave a foot or two below my feet on the ditch bank, he slowed down and leaned over with a big smile on his face looking at me through the open window. Just my luck. An open window. If it had been another cop driving who did not know me (of course Smyrna was so small everyone knew everyone), maybe he would not have slowed down to be exactly in front of the cave as there was this thunderous explosion.

It was sixty-years ago, but I remember it in Kodachrome. Slow motion, too. There was a huge noise as the four Cherry bombs went off simultaneously. An eruption of smoke and red clay blasted out of the now much larger cave. The debris from the explosion impacted the side of the police car, except, of course, for that which flew through the open window and into the face of the police officer.

I was frozen at attention on top of the ditch bank, as I watched the glorious results, exactly as I had envisioned, except for the impediment of the police car. The car immediately screeched to a dead stop. Red clay covered the car. The police officer was staring at me with incredulity. He couldn’t believe what happened. Neither could I. I realized that life, as I knew, was over. I envisioned prison at hard labor on a chain gang. At the very least, a butt whipping from Big Bill Reed, which, truth be told, might have been worse than prison and the chain gang.

As the smoke cleared, the police officer calmly opened his door on the driver’s side – the clean side – and got out. He sorta shook himself like a big dog to shake off most of the red clay. He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his face. The white handkerchief would never be white again. He walked around the front of the cruiser, giving me the stink eye. He did stop for a moment to look at the side of his cruiser. He did not say a word. He approached me and gestured to my leather brief, nearly overflowing with fireworks. I knew he was asking for my fireworks. I unslung the brief and handed it to him. We were at eye level, me on top of the ditch bank, he standing on the sidewalk. He gazed into the brief and the deadly cache of explosives and just shook his head. He then turned around, taking my brief and fireworks with him, walked back around the front of the car to his open drivers door. He stood there for a moment staring at me, still never saying a word. He then got in the car and drove away.

What the hell just happened? He did not arrest me. He did not slap on the cuffs and throw me in the back seat. He didn’t even hit me with the nightstick on his belt. He did not even draw his gun. He just slowly drove away.

The next few days were the longest of my young life. I fully expected to be confronted by dad and probably be whupped to within an inch of my life. It never happened. Not a word was ever said about it to me, and I surely never said anything. For whatever reason, the police officer showed me extreme grace. Or maybe he suffered brain damage from the explosive concussion.