College Journalism on Steroids in Indiana

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When I arrived at Ft. Benjamin Harrison to enter DINFOS–the Defense Information School–I didn’t know what to expect. Just a few weeks past Army basic training, I was just happy to be in a place where there were no screaming drill instructors, no marching, running, or weapons training. Realizing that it was a genuine academic institution was icing on the cake.

The difference between DINFOS and an ordinary college curriculum was that students worked as much as 12 hours a day, six days a week, and occasionally on Sundays. The six-month course therefore included more lecture and writing assignments than four-year journalism students received at the state’s most renowned university.

My fellow students included members of the four major services as well as the US Coast Guard and a few Defense Department civilians. Along with standard journalism, the course provided an insider’s understanding of the military, as well as discussions on US strategies in international affairs. Many of us, including me, had worked on newspapers or radio stations before entering the military. Yet we all learned a great deal and sharpened our skills, as we experienced the military’s “immersion journalism training.”

We graduated with confidence that we were capable military journalists who needed no hand-holding. And we worked within the DINFOS slogan, “Maximum Disclosure, Minimum Delay.” Although my DINFOS days were many years ago, I still count some of the lessons learned there as the best skills training I ever received…far more valuable than regular college courses or grad school that I later attended.

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One Single Action that Changed Everything

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Many of us recall a single action, seemingly insignificant, that changed everything that followed for us thereafter. World history has often been similarly affected by simple events, triggering actions that changed everything that followed.

On a personal level, I can recall several such events. One of the most significant events occurred during Army basic training at Ft. Dix, NJ. During a training session, the drill instructor in charge received a hand-delivered message. Looking at me with an appropriate level of disdain, he growled my name, and ordered me to fall out and report to the office of the First Sergeant. Following his order I ran back to the barracks admin area and to the office, dreading an unknown problem that would result in some kind of punishment.

Tentatively entering the First Sergeant’s office, I was relieved to meet a man in civilian clothes, who had the casual manner of a college professor. I learned that he was a DOD (Department of Defense) civilian employee assigned to an organization called DINFOS. His organization was responsible for training military journalists and broadcasters to serve in each branch of the services.

Introducing himself as Mr. Mathews, he read from a file folder that contained my personal information. Because of my education, civilian experience, and testing results, he said that I qualified for DINFOS training at the DOD campus of Ft. Benjamin Harrison, IN. The training there would be six months long, six days a week, and often as long as 12 hours daily. It was immersion training in journalism, and would cover the equivalent of a four-year major at a neighboring university. After graduation, I could be a writer, an editor, or information coordinator working with civilian media.

As with most Army opportunities, there were strings attached. I was a two-year draftee and would have to extend my Army obligation to three years. All I needed to do was sign a few forms, and Army bureaucracy would handle the rest. Just sign, add a year to my active service, go back to my basic training company, and trust that I would be assigned to journalism training after basic training.

In my mind, I imagined that “Mr. Mathews” might actually be the Devil, and was offering the classical “Deal With the Devil.” I imagined being mired in a Vietnam rice paddy, explaining to the Viet Cong that I didn’t really belong there, that I was supposed to be a journalist.  I had heard many scary stories of recruits who had encountered bureaucratic surprises. I could only hope that there would be no such snags to derail me.

After quickly weighing potential scenarios, I realized that there were two possible answers for Mr. Mathews. One was to say “No Thanks, sir.” That might get me into the war as an ammo-bearer or infantryman. The alternative response was, “Thank you sir, where do I sign?” That could produce a series of results, ranging from bad to good to great.

So I signed. I went back to the rigors of basic training, marching, running, and learning to handle various weapons. I had little time to think of Mathews, DINFOS or journalism. But when I graduated from basic training, I received written orders to fly to Indiana, and report to Ft. Benjamin Harrison for training. I was happily surprised, and never looked back. Following my six months at DINFOS, I spent a short stint at a post in the Mojave Desert, and then went to Hawaii as a newspaper writer and editor.

But that one moment of decision in an Army office had changed my life forever.
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It All Began With The War in Vietnam

I wasn’t at Woodstock between August 15 and August 18, 1969. And unlike many young guys of my generation, I never wore a tie-dyed shirt. Instead, I was one of the other guys, wearing US Army fatigues, courtesy of my local draft board.

But I was one of the lucky ones. In fact I was among the luckiest. Thanks to some early experience in journalism and broadcasting, the Army sent me to its Defense Information School, declared me to be a military journalist, and eventually posted me in Hawaii for the remainder of my short Army career.

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Though I never heard a “shot fired in anger,” I was nevertheless connected to the Vietnam War in ways I would never have expected. In my journalism job at US Army Hawaii, I touched people and events that eventually affected the war, and may have actually changed history. As I re-entered the civilian world and pursued a very different career, memories and questions about those Army years have stayed with me.

Until very recently, I never shared that story.  And instead of telling it now, I decided to write a novel combining real life and fiction. The result is a book that’s nearing completion. It’s called “The Victory That Wasn’t.”

Drafted! Feb 7, So Many Years Ago

Feb. 7, was the anniversary of my first day in the Army. My memory of that day is indelibly branded in my brain, in great detail.

On the morning of Feb. 7, I was home alone in our house on Glenbrook Rd. I had said goodbye to my dad the night before, since I knew he left for work at 6:30 AM and I wanted to sleep later to prepare for a very long day. None of our family has ever been good at saying goodbye, but I knew that my dad, a flag-waving patriot, was proud of me. My mom left for work a bit later that morning. A typical stoic Scott—raised in Glasgow—she would never shed a tear, but mumbled something like, “Don’t forget to write.”

So home alone for the last time, I left my house and car keys on the kitchen table, called a taxi for the short ride to the Stamford, CT railroad station,  and headed for the train to New haven.

Once I boarded the train, the situation began to feel real. Though I had feared and resented the notion of being drafted, I began to see the experience as an exciting adventure. As we arrived in New Haven, uniformed Army people met the train, as stipulated in my draft instructions. I suddenly realized that there had been many other young guys on that train, and that we were all headed to the same destination. At this point, the Army people were relatively polite. We were still civilians. They guided us to Army buses that brought us to the Army induction center. Once we arrived at the center, our uniformed guides were far less courteous.

The induction center was a scene of organized chaos. We each received pre-numbered forms that already had our names and basic information. Since we had all previously reported for our physical exams, we were ready to be sworn in. We all robotically raised our right hands, and swore allegiance to the United States, repeating the words of a young lieutenant who conducted the two-minute ceremony.

The uniformed guys telling us where to go were now MUCH less polite. They brusquely lined us up in groups of 50, for blood-typing, the last piece of data to be stamped into our dog tags. Each of us had a temporary number, and a medical tech guy carried a series of blood-typing modules with corresponding numbers. He simply matched each number, used the module’s tiny, sharp lancet to draw a drop of blood, and stowed each module into a container. Within an hour or so, we each received our two dog-tags on a neck chain, and could read our blood types stamped into them. For the next 30 years I always wrote my type, A+ onto medical forms, as stamped into my two dog tags. Having my type checked again after all of those years, I learned that the Army techs had it wrong. I am one of only 3.4% of the population with blood type AB+.

Leaving the New Haven Induction Center, we boarded buses for the three-hour drive to Ft. Dix, NJ. We arrived after dark, and were chased off of the buses by sergeants who loudly affirmed their control. Though exhausted at the late hour, we took written tests that measured our IQ’s and ultimately indicated the kind of jobs we might have after basic training. We were then organized roughly as a company called Yankee Company, with four platoons of 50. The platoons were created more or less in alphabetical order. For example, all of the guys in Platoon One had names beginning with the letters A through G. Since my name begins with the letter V, I was in the last platoon—Platoon Four. Each platoon had four squads of 12 or 13 members, still organized alphabetically.

It seemed odd to me that my name, beginning with V would be one of the three last names in a company of 200. But then I learned that our platoon was different from the other three. Our first squad was NOT composed alphabetically. Instead it began with names of 12 convicted criminals.

Judges of that era offered certain felons a choice between prison and the Army. When the would-be convicts chose the training they would receive, their choices were limited to combat roles. Typically macho kids under these circumstances chose Airborne, the most dangerous, yet glamorous part of the Army. In a foolish experiment, Army brass decided to keep newly recruited Airborne volunteers together as discrete units through all phases of their training—from basic through Infantry and then Airborne schools. As a result 25 percent of our platoon members were hardened gang-bangers, several of whom committed anti-social acts from Day 1. What could go wrong with this plan?

And that’s how and why I have privately remembered Feb. 7, every year since that first day of my Army career.