{"product_id":"why-a-soldier-isbn-9780345482259","title":"Why a Soldier?","description":"He was one of the best, Airborne, proud to serve his country and fight its toughest war--in the hell that was Vietnam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnown to all as \"Fitz,\" Signal Corps officer David Fitz-Enz served two tours in Vietnam. He was a soldier, combat photographer, and platoon leader, fighting America's cruelest war--from the VC-infested rice paddies of the Mekong Delta to the dreaded Ia Drang Valley, where the enemy ruled the night. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDispensing with traditional, sluggish chains of command, the Signal Corps developed a rapid-response system based on greater flexibility, cutting-edge communications technology, and interdependence between the branches of the military during the war. Now commanders in the field were able to call in artillery, air strikes, and reinforcements at a moment's notice. Fitz-Enz himself orchestrated the first-ever hook up over tactical systems between the President in the Oval Office and a general in the Vietnam jungle. The only book of its kind, WHY A SOLDIER? gives us the inside view of the Corps as it launched an exciting new era in strategic and tactical communications that set the groundwork for all future military operations.Col. David G. Fitz-Enz was a regular army officer for thirty years, retiring in 1993. Among his decorations are the Soldier's Medal for Heroism, the Bronze Star for Valor with four oak leaf clusters, the Air Medal, and the Legion of Merit with three oak leaf clusters. He is a graduate of Marquette University, the Army Command and General Staff College, and the Army War College. He is published in Military Review, the army's professional journal. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColonel Fitz-Enz is the national president of the American Military Retirees Association and vice president of Cannonade Film Works, Inc.\u003cb\u003eWhy Not Join the Navy?\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was New Year's Eve, 1963. I was seventeen years old, and Bill Swanson,\u003cbr\u003ea high school classmate, and I were out roaming the streets of Rockland,\u003cbr\u003eMaine, trying to find somebody who would buy two underage boys some\u003cbr\u003ealcohol. Our goal was Gluek Stite, a rank but strong malt liquor that came\u003cbr\u003ein small six-ounce cans. The stuff would gag a maggot, but it would get us\u003cbr\u003edrunk in minimum time. All of us who drank for the sole purpose of getting\u003cbr\u003ehammered used it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarlier in the evening, as I left my house in Spruce Head, I had asked my\u003cbr\u003emother for some money so I could get something to eat and go to the\u003cbr\u003emovies. Needless to say, I did neither that night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBill knew a Coast Guard sailor called Reb who would buy kids beer. We\u003cbr\u003efound him in his room, above the Oasis Lounge in Rockland. We walked up\u003cbr\u003ethe outside stairs to Reb's room and gave him the money. He went to the\u003cbr\u003emarket across Park Street to make our purchase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReb came back to the room, handed us the brown sack, and we drank down the\u003cbr\u003emalt liquor and waited for the buzz that would signify the first stages of\u003cbr\u003eadolescent intoxication. Reb just lay back on his bed reading a magazine,\u003cbr\u003eevery once in a while looking at us with a big grin as we drank.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few minutes after having downed our six-packs, we left Reb's room for\u003cbr\u003eour first stop, the barroom downstairs. The operators of the place didn't\u003cbr\u003equestion our ages. I proposed to one woman that she might dance with me.\u003cbr\u003eShe gave me a quizzical look and impolitely declined the offer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe then strode valiantly, however unsteadily, out into the street. I was\u003cbr\u003ewalking toward Park Street along Main when I was overcome by nausea. Right\u003cbr\u003ein front of Phil's Corner, a small luncheonette, I felt the immediate urge\u003cbr\u003eto throw up. To steady myself, I grabbed firmly onto a parking meter (a\u003cbr\u003elong since discarded fixture on Rockland's Main Street) and proceeded to\u003cbr\u003espray yellow Gluek Stite all over my shoes and the surrounding sidewalk.\u003cbr\u003eJust then a Rockland cop, Officer Hanley, walked up and asked if I was all\u003cbr\u003eright. Bill had seen Hanley walking down the street and had put some\u003cbr\u003edistance between us, and he shouted at me to run. In an alcohol-induced\u003cbr\u003ehaze, I ran as fast as I could south down Main Street. Figuring Hanley was\u003cbr\u003ehot on my tail, I ducked behind Phil's and then back out onto Park Street.\u003cbr\u003eOf course it wasn't the brightest choice; Phil's Corner was only about\u003cbr\u003efifty feet square and there were no buildings around it. As I ran around\u003cbr\u003ethe building, trying to look back and see if Hanley was following me, I\u003cbr\u003eblasted around a corner and ran directly into him. He hadn't moved an inch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Better come with me, son,\" were his next words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe drove to the Rockland Police Department, where I was placed in a cell\u003cbr\u003epainted therapeutic green. It had a hole in the floor and no mattress on\u003cbr\u003ethe bed. My mother's cousin, Bruce Gamage, was on duty that night and he\u003cbr\u003esaw some degree of humor in my situation. I knew he had done more bad shit\u003cbr\u003ewhen he was young than I ever had, so I was quite sure I was not the first\u003cbr\u003eadolescent to have this experience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy father and Sonny Drinkwater, a lobsterman friend of his, came to bail\u003cbr\u003eme out. It required some surety to obtain my release so Sonny put up his\u003cbr\u003ehouse for bond. In those days, drinking as a minor was quite a serious\u003cbr\u003eoffense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was unceremoniously dumped into the back of Sonny's car and we drove to\u003cbr\u003eSpruce Head. I made some comment to my father about never being thought of\u003cbr\u003eby anybody as much more than a waste. That drew a hard slap across the\u003cbr\u003eface. That was the last time I ever gave him reason to hit me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the time, I lived in a rented house in Spruce Head with my mother,\u003cbr\u003estepfather, and two sisters, Heather and Cheryl. My parents divorced when\u003cbr\u003eI was ten years old, and I had lived with each of them for a while as they\u003cbr\u003estill lived in the same town. That way, I did not have to change schools.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy father shoved me through the door with a comment directed at my mother\u003cbr\u003ethat he had brought \"her little boy\" home. I went to bed with thoughts of\u003cbr\u003eimpending death running through my mind. The next day I got up early and\u003cbr\u003emy mother ordered me to saw a cord of firewood into stove lengths, and\u003cbr\u003ethen split and stack it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe legal system in those days was not as understanding as it is now. I\u003cbr\u003ewas fined thirty-five dollars, given a suspended fifteen-day jail\u003cbr\u003esentence, and placed on one year's probation for my heinous crime. And I\u003cbr\u003ehad to visit my probation officer every week. I had visions of never being\u003cbr\u003eable to get a job or vote or do any of the other things people take for\u003cbr\u003egranted, and in my own mind I felt like a convict.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I returned to school after holiday vacation, word had spread about my\u003cbr\u003erun-in with the law. The Key Club (junior version of Kiwanis) had taken a\u003cbr\u003evote and expelled me from it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo get to my probation officer in the Post Office building, I had to pass\u003cbr\u003eby the military recruiters' offices. Most of the time the recruiters were\u003cbr\u003enot in and a sign on the door announced when they would be. One afternoon,\u003cbr\u003ea few months after my \"conviction,\" the Navy recruiter happened to be in,\u003cbr\u003ea first class boatswain's mate in a blue uniform bedecked with ribbons and\u003cbr\u003egold hash marks. A sign on his desk read \"BM1 Allen, USN.\" I kind of liked\u003cbr\u003ethat. A title in front of your name. A uniform and that look in the eye\u003cbr\u003ethat told others you had seen things they could only dream about or see in\u003cbr\u003emovies. I walked in. He looked up from filling out some forms and asked if\u003cbr\u003ehe could help me. I told him I was considering joining the service and\u003cbr\u003ewanted to see what the Navy had to offer. He asked me if I was still in\u003cbr\u003ehigh school. I said I was for the moment, but that it might not last much\u003cbr\u003elonger. He pointed to a chair and said he would be right with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked around the room. Posters from the World War II era were all over\u003cbr\u003ethe walls, one showing an attractive girl and another a girl in dress\u003cbr\u003eblues saying her man was in the Navy--that sort of thing. I didn't know if\u003cbr\u003eshe was making an offer to other sailors who weren't at sea, or if she was\u003cbr\u003ejust a prop to attract dumb high school kids like me into signing on the\u003cbr\u003edotted line. Around a recruiter's office there is always the implication\u003cbr\u003ethat you are going to have more fun, get laid more, and see more exciting\u003cbr\u003eplaces and things in the military. They always seem to leave out\u003cbr\u003einformation about fighting wars, getting your ass shot off, scrubbing pots\u003cbr\u003eand pans, and cleaning heads.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a few minutes Bosun's Mate First Class Allen looked up from his\u003cbr\u003epaperwork. He stood and with a smile reached out and shook my hand, and we\u003cbr\u003eintroduced ourselves. He asked me what I meant about not being in high\u003cbr\u003eschool for long. I told him I was fed up with the place and going to quit.\u003cbr\u003eHe said that was not a good idea because he could not guarantee me a\u003cbr\u003eschool if I did that. He said that he would enlist me if I passed the\u003cbr\u003eArmed Forces Qualification Test, but it would be much better if I didn't\u003cbr\u003equit. Also, the Navy would give me E-2 (Airman Apprentice) out of boot\u003cbr\u003ecamp if I had a high school diploma. I didn't know what \u003cbr\u003ethat meant, but I figured it might translate into more money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked over the brochures he had that described navy career fields and\u003cbr\u003etold him I would like to be a photographer's mate. I was interested in\u003cbr\u003ephotography and diving, but I understood the Navy didn't enlist you and\u003cbr\u003esend you directly to diving school.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAllen told me to talk my decision over with my parents and then come back\u003cbr\u003ein a couple of days. Even though I would be eighteen when I joined, it was\u003cbr\u003ealways good to have the approval of the parents. I knew my chances of\u003cbr\u003egoing to college were just short of nonexistent. Even if I'd had the\u003cbr\u003efinancial means, I hated school and would never have graduated. I wouldn't\u003cbr\u003ehave been able to bring myself to go just to keep from being drafted. In\u003cbr\u003ethe 1960s the draft was in full swing and many of my schoolmates were\u003cbr\u003ediscussing ways to avoid serving their country in the military.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next time I went to sign in with my probation officer, I stopped by\u003cbr\u003ethe Navy recruiter's office. Allen had some papers laid out on the desk.\u003cbr\u003eHe asked me to fill in the blanks so he could start the paperwork. I would\u003cbr\u003enot be obligated to join, he just wanted to lay out the groundwork. Then\u003cbr\u003ehe gave me the Armed Forces Qualification Test. The test was multiple\u003cbr\u003echoice and made up of questions about mechanical things, electricity,\u003cbr\u003emath, language comprehension, abstract thinking, and so on. I finished it\u003cbr\u003ein rapid fashion and was told I had scored a 94 percent out of a possible\u003cbr\u003e99, which seemed to impress the recruiter. He told me that once I got in I\u003cbr\u003ecould go to any school I could physically qualify for. He then asked if I\u003cbr\u003ewas on probation or anything like that. I told him I was--for drinking\u003cbr\u003eunder age. He smiled and said that wouldn't be a problem. He would get the\u003cbr\u003ejudge to erase my record and it would be as though it had never existed.\u003cbr\u003eThat happened a lot in those days. Many young men who might otherwise have\u003cbr\u003eended up in jail joined the service. The vast majority of them never had\u003cbr\u003etrouble with the law again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next day in school, I went to the guidance office and asked to see the\u003cbr\u003ecatalogs on Navy training. In Maine back then, the military was still seen\u003cbr\u003eas an honorable profession, not looked down upon as a place where people\u003cbr\u003eserved who couldn't make it anywhere else. The guidance counselor gave me\u003cbr\u003ethe books I asked for, and I sat down at a desk in his office and looked\u003cbr\u003ethem over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat evening I went to my girlfriend Mary's house. Her father, Roland\u003cbr\u003eWare, was always glad to see me and would drop whatever he was doing to\u003cbr\u003esit and talk with me. For some reason \u003cbr\u003eI seemed to spend as much time talking to him as I did with Mary. I\u003cbr\u003eimagine the conversations probably did me more good. \u003cbr\u003eI couldn't figure out why a man of his stature would want to \u003cbr\u003esit and talk with me. Roland always gave good advice. He was\u003cbr\u003ewell-thought-of in the community and had started and still operated a\u003cbr\u003elocal petroleum products distribution company, Mari-\u003cbr\u003etime Oil Company. At that time I owned exactly four changes \u003cbr\u003eof clothes and two pairs of shoes, not counting my rubber \u003cbr\u003eboots. I was the son of a chicken farmer and the stepson of a lobster\u003cbr\u003efisherman, neither one very successful, and came from a broken home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRoland said he thought it might be good for me to go into the Navy. I\u003cbr\u003eexplained that I thought I could get training in photography and travel a\u003cbr\u003elittle and possibly learn enough so I could make a living when I got out.\u003cbr\u003eHe agreed that for a young man it was not the worst of options.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy next stop was to get the probation officer to expunge \u003cbr\u003emy record of all criminal activity. That was not a problem. It lightened\u003cbr\u003ehis workload and would get another troublemaker out of town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn June 11, 1964, I graduated from Rockland District High School about\u003cbr\u003enumber 80 out of 140 or so. I did not consider it a momentous occasion,\u003cbr\u003ebut I felt many of my classmates thought this would be the apex of their\u003cbr\u003ecareers. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of our little seacoast\u003cbr\u003ecommunity and get on with my life. From my standpoint, Rockland and its\u003cbr\u003esurroundings had very little to offer, and I would just as soon see them\u003cbr\u003ein the rearview mirror for the last time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI still had to take a physical and this required me to go to Bangor,\u003cbr\u003eMaine, to the military medical facility there, where Army and Navy medical\u003cbr\u003epersonnel gave preinduction physicals to draftees and volunteers.\u003cbr\u003eVolunteers were quickly becoming the minority as the draft was beginning\u003cbr\u003eto crank up for the Viet-\u003cbr\u003enam War.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe recruiter provided a Greyhound Bus ticket to Bangor and handed me an\u003cbr\u003eenvelope with some papers in it. He told me to answer \"no\" to anything I\u003cbr\u003edidn't understand. During my childhood and up into my teens I had been\u003cbr\u003ebothered with asthma on occasion. There were times when I couldn't go to\u003cbr\u003eschool, it was so bad. He said it sounded like hay fever to him and that's\u003cbr\u003ewhat I probably would answer on the sheet when they asked me. I took his\u003cbr\u003eadvice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe physical was a typical walk-through. They noted that I had slightly\u003cbr\u003eflat feet and blue eyes, and that was about it. One potential recruit had\u003cbr\u003ea big scar on his chest from open-heart surgery. The corpsmen asked him\u003cbr\u003esome questions and then told him he was okay. Another kid wanted to join\u003cbr\u003ethe Marines. He had high blood pressure, and they rejected him. I passed\u003cbr\u003ewith flying colors and went home on the next bus. It was almost like a\u003cbr\u003edream. All I did was sign my name on some papers and all this stuff\u003cbr\u003estarted happening to me. Somebody wanted to hire me and was willing to pay\u003cbr\u003eto have me work for them. They would give me clothes, fly me around,\u003cbr\u003eeducate me, and even let me eat all I wanted. Christ, what a deal!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe day before I was to hop the \"many windows\" to Portland, where I would\u003cbr\u003ebe sworn in, I ran across Mike McNeil and David Cooper, friends of mine\u003cbr\u003efrom high school. They proposed we get some Gluek Stite, go to Samoset\u003cbr\u003eResort Road, and slam a few down as a going-away party for me. Sounded\u003cbr\u003elike a good idea. The usual formalities of obtaining the brew were quickly\u003cbr\u003edispensed with and we were on our way to getting drunk. We drove back into\u003cbr\u003eRockland and parked on Main Street near the Central Maine Power Company\u003cbr\u003ebuilding. An alley that ran between that building and the one next to it\u003cbr\u003ewas a favorite place to piss. As I stood there writing my name on the\u003cbr\u003ewall, just getting ready to cross the T's, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I\u003cbr\u003elooked quickly around and there was Bert Snow, a Rockland cop. \"Oh\u003cbr\u003eChrist,\" I thought, \"here I go again.\" I told Bert I was going into the\u003cbr\u003eNavy the next day, the mother of one of the other guys was extremely sick\u003cbr\u003eand was probably not going to live much longer, and I can't remember the\u003cbr\u003eother horrible things we told them, but he let us go. David Cooper's\u003cbr\u003emother, Winola, came to the police station and got us and drove me home.\u003cbr\u003eShe had been my music teacher my whole career in the school system and I\u003cbr\u003ewas quite embarrassed to have her come and take us away in that shape. She\u003cbr\u003edidn't have much to say to me on the ride to my house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next morning I woke with no hangover; we hadn't consumed all that much\u003cbr\u003ebeer. My mother had packed some of my stuff in a small gym bag and I put\u003cbr\u003eon a pair of Levi's and a shirt. I'd already purchased a pair of black\u003cbr\u003eshoes, standard black low-cuts like the dress shoes worn in all the\u003cbr\u003eservices. My mother gave me a ride to the Greyhound Bus station in\u003cbr\u003eRockland. Mary, my girlfriend, was there. Both of them kissed me good-bye.\u003cbr\u003eI got on the bus, sat down, and we started up the street. As we passed out\u003cbr\u003eof Rockland I thought to myself, I guess I won't be seeing this place for\u003cbr\u003ea while.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn't have a clue as to what lay in store for me. What sort of\u003cbr\u003eadventures were ahead? Would I fit in with the crowds I would meet? Where\u003cbr\u003ewould I end up being stationed? Would the Navy give me what I wanted for\u003cbr\u003etraining or had the recruiter been blowing smoke to suck me in?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the way to Portland I thought about what I had done so far in my life\u003cbr\u003eand how it hadn't amounted to much. I was never able to make any amount of\u003cbr\u003emoney, most girls wouldn't give me the time of day, and my parents\u003cbr\u003ecouldn't seem to decide where they wanted me to live. Ah, what the hell,\u003cbr\u003eit was my chance to punch the reset button and start from scratch.","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305224360165,"sku":"NP9780345482259","price":23.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345482259.jpg?v=1767744255","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/why-a-soldier-isbn-9780345482259","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}