Who's That With Charlie?. Charles S. Mechem

several more recruits got on board. They were young, sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys from the streets of Detroit. In those days it was not unusual for a young man who got in minor trouble to be given a choice of going to jail or going into the Army. These boys had chosen the Army. One of the boys was a tall, engaging kid named Bobby, and we struck up a friendship on our way to Fort Leonard Wood. He and his pals simply could not believe that I was a lawyer. Their logic was compelling: If you’re intelligent enough to be a lawyer, you should be smart enough to not be on a train taking you to Army basic training! Hard to argue with, but I convinced them by showing them my Ohio Bar Association membership card. They were persuaded and were much more impressed than they should have been! I go into this much detail about the train ride because my new friendship became very important to my well-being in a very short period of time.

      We reached Fort Leonard Wood and were directed to our barracks, where we began to get our gear organized and began visiting with people around us. Later that night, after our first dinner, we came back to the barracks and Bobby and his friends were telling everyone that I was a lawyer and therefore, in their eyes, unlike anyone else in the whole place! You have to understand that most of these kids had never finished high school, and having a lawyer in their midst was a unique experience.

      It turns out that one of our barracks mates was not so impressed. He was an older guy who obviously resented the attention I was getting. He walked to where we were all sitting and began to say some not-so-kind things about me. Then he stepped forward, and I firmly believed he was preparing to beat me up. As I stood there, not knowing quite what to do, my new friend Bobby stood up, walked over to the older guy, pulled a switchblade knife from his pocket, flipped it open under the older guy’s chin, and said quietly but forcefully, “Don’t f_ _ _ with Charlie.” That ended the confrontation and cemented our friendship forever!

      BASIC TRAINING LASTED twelve weeks, and I can’t begin to go into detail about all of my experiences. Rather, I’ll quickly note several high points—and low points!

      Surprisingly, I gave up cigarettes during basic. I knew that at age twenty-five I would have a hard enough time getting through basic training even if I was in the best of shape and certainly would have a real problem if I continued to smoke. So, I gave it up and, as a result, was the only guy in my company that gained weight during basic training!

      When the commanding officer learned that I was in the group, he called me into the orderly room one day and told me that he wanted me to help him with a project. Obviously, I could not decline. He explained that he was about to retire after twenty years in the service and wanted to go to college. He wanted me to help him put together applications to get him into a good school. I was happy to do this and had fun getting to know him and spending some time with the other officers, even though I was a lowly enlisted man.

      One of my favorite memories involves the deputy company commander, a first lieutenant who had recently graduated from Princeton. I was an oddity as an enlisted man because of my educational background, and he had a lot of fun kidding me—in a good-natured way. The incident I remember best happened at the end of a drill where we were marching with our rifles (the legendary M-1) on our shoulders and then came to a halt. We had done this scores of times, and at the moment we came to a halt the lieutenant always called out the next command (known in the manual of arms as “order arms”), which was bringing your rifle from your shoulder to the ground. This time he decided to have some fun with me, so when we came to a halt he did not automatically give the next command. I anticipated the command and brought my rifle to the ground. None of the other guys moved a muscle. The lieutenant came over to me, looked me straight in the face with a smile, and said, “Mechem, you’re thinking again!” The lesson was clear: in the military you never anticipate a command. It was a lesson well learned.

      Another wonderful lesson in how the world works came one day when we were on the rifle range. One of the duties that fell to our group was to go to the area (called “the pits”) where the targets were placed and be responsible for pulling the targets up and down depending on how the shooter had scored. In other words, if a shooter got a bull’s-eye, you ran up a particular flag. If, on the other hand, he missed the target entirely, you ran up what looked like a pair of red underwear that was affectionately called “Maggie’s Drawers.” This particular day, when I was tending one of the targets, the sergeant in charge of our group came down and said, “Mechem, the commanding general of the post is firing at your target. No matter where his shots go, put up the bull’s-eye flag.” I did as I was told even though some of the shots merited a Maggie’s Drawers. This is when I grasped the full meaning of the phrase “rank has its privileges.”

      Finally, an experience that I still can’t believe really happened. It was spring in the Ozark Mountains. This meant that it was freezing cold in the mornings and frequently quite warm mid-day. The result was that, by afternoon, you were overdressed and perspiring. This led to more and more cases of pneumonia, bronchitis, and strep throat. This was bad enough, but the real problem was that if you had to go to the hospital and stay for several days, you were “cycled back” and had to start basic training all over again. The result was that guys put off going to the hospital as long as possible and inevitably their conditions were even worse when they did go. I seemed to be getting along okay until my throat began to hurt. It got worse and worse and finally became so bad I could eat nothing except ice cream or something of similar consistency—which was not easy to come by. I was determined not to go to the hospital and risk having to start basic training all over again. Finally, in desperation, I bought a jar of Vicks VapoRub and literally ate large chunks of it. This was not great for my digestion, but unbelievably my throat got better, and I didn’t have to go to the hospital! I could have given Vicks a great testimonial, though I am certainly not suggesting this form of treatment.

      I FINALLY FINISHED basic training and was sent to the Counter-Intelligence School at Fort Holabird, Maryland, where I entered an intense four-month program on how to become a “spy.” I’m kidding when I characterize it in this way. In fact, we were trained to be counter-intelligence agents and were drilled in subjects like interrogation techniques, profiling, surveillance, clandestine entry, and the like. It was a terrific program and I learned a lot. Much of it served me well as a lawyer in future years.

      When I finished the school, they decided to keep me at Fort Holabird as part of the faculty of the school. Although I would have preferred to be sent to some exotic location, staying put was fine. We had a nice little apartment in the suburbs of Baltimore and were enjoying being close to Washington and New York City.

      By this time, I had literally forgotten about my Judge Advocate General’s Corps application. But a big surprise was in store for me. Every Saturday morning the battalion commander, a lieutenant colonel, inspected the troops by walking up and down the lines and checking dress and overall military bearing. I never had any trouble in these inspections, but on this particular Saturday morning I was singled out by the battalion commander for several problems, including my uniform, my shoes, the shine on my belt buckle, and so on. I was puzzled by this and even more puzzled when he called me to the front of the formation and said, as I best recall, essentially the following: “Mechem, you are a sloppy soldier. You are an embarrassment to the enlisted ranks. I think the only thing for you is to become an officer!” He then produced from his pocket a set of first lieutenant’s silver bars and pinned them on my shoulders. He explained to the troops, who were as stunned as I was, that my Judge Advocate General’s Corps commission had come through, and he wanted to have a little fun awarding it to me. I was greatly relieved and pleased, and all of the guys in our company were excited and noisy. I spent another few weeks at Fort Holabird before being transferred to the Judge Advocate General’s school, which was operated in collaboration with the University of Virginia Law School in Charlottesville, Virginia. The few weeks that I remained at Fort Holabird—now as a first lieutenant—were amusing. Suddenly I outranked virtually everybody in the company, many of whom had been tough on me, along with all the other enlisted men, during our time there. They suddenly became my best friends!

      So, the next move was