If you have the time, and the cavalry has all the time in the world, there's no better way to learn how to ride a horse than the cavalry way. Horses are big, and they frighten men who don't know anything about them. The first thing a man has to overcome is his basic, if unadmitted, fear of horses. We were all assigned to gentle horses, well-trained trooper’s mounts, and most of them were at least twelve years old. Each horse had its own personality and peculiar ways, and these had to be learned. A man could get hurt very easily if he wasn’t careful. A horse would bite, and a horse bite is painful because the horse won’t open his mouth after biting down on you. He just clamps down, pulls his head back, and then his teeth slide off eventually. The result is a cruel and painful pinch.
If your foot gets in the way, he will inadvertently step on it; and he will not get off your foot until you push him off balance. Horses, as Corporal Royale reminded us often, are incredibly dumb animals, with brains about the size of a walnut, and although they can be conditioned to respond to a certain set of signals — e.g., a right leading rein, a left bearing rein, and a firm right leg on the girth will make him turn right — he doesn't know why he does it, or why you made him do it, but he will keep turning in the circle until you give him a new set of signals he has been conditioned to — but enough of all that.
During our first week we just used blankets and surcingles (to keep the blanket in place), bridles with snaffle bits, and single reins. Getting up on a horse without a stirrup is difficult; and learning to keep your reins short at all times isn't easy either. On the first morning, on our way to the fenced-in riding ring on the upper parade ground, and riding at a walk, with our legs dangling, Hammond let his reins get too loose. His horse, Lefty, got the bit between his teeth, turned left, and galloped back to the stables. Hammond fell off long before Lefty reached the stables, and then he had to get the horse and lead him back to the riding ring.
“That's why he's called Lefty,” Corporal Royale explained. “He's stable-bound, and if you give him the chance, he'll always turn left before he gallops back to the stables.”
Hammond wasn't hurt — just a few scratches on his face — but he kept his reins short after that, as did we all. When one man was growled at for doing something wrong, we all learned not to make the same kind of mistake ourselves. There was some security in training by platoon, because you weren't chewed out as much as if you were getting individual instructions.
In the ring, on that first day, we had to learn how to vault onto the horse's back from behind. Bourbon, a quiet bourbon colored horse, was used for this purpose. One man held his head and we took turns running from behind, placing both hands on the croup, and trying to leap up onto his back. This was harder to do than it looked when Corporal Royale demonstrated it. It was a long way up there, and you had to land on either the croup or the back and avoid landing on the kidneys. If you got it into your head that he might kick backwards as you reached him, you wouldn't be able to vault onto his back because you would hesitate just long enough to muff it. Before the morning ended, all of us had managed to do it several times except Shimer. Shimer, at five-seven, was a little short, and he was frightened, with his legs and hands shaking before he made his runs.
“Don't worry, Shimer,” Corporal Royale told him, not unkindly, “you've got ninety days to learn how to do it. And if you can't make it by then, Sergeant Brasely will transfer you to the infantry.”
We spent the first week at a walk and at a slow trot riding in a circle. The purpose was to learn balance and stretch your legs. We all became sore and raw between the legs, but I'm sure my legs were stretched at least an inch by the end of the week. We also spent a lot of time grooming our horses and having them inspected by Corporal Royale. We had to pick up their feet and clean them, but the horses responded nicely to signals, so no one had any trouble.
My horse, Chesty, had ear warts, and ear warts are very painful to a horse. I had to learn how to bridle him without touching his ears. I did this by unlatching the left cheek strap. I slipped the bit into his mouth and pulled the head strap over his head without touching his ears. I then retightened the cheek strap and didn't have to touch his ears. This was important to remember, because if Chesty's ears were touched accidentally, he would strike at you with both front feet. This was scary; a striking horse can split a man's head open.
I was a little disappointed at first when Corporal Royale told us that our horses didn't know who we were, that men and women were exactly the same to a horse, and that if you rode a horse every day for five years he still wouldn't know you from Adam's house cat. He had no way of telling one person from another. Unlike a dog, the horse couldn't smell you, and except for the difference in weight, he couldn't even recognize: the difference between a man and a woman rider. He could respond to a tone of voice, but not to words. As long as he got the same set of signals, he would react as he had been conditioned. Some of the guys in our platoon didn't believe all this about their horses, but I did. I didn't like Chesty any less, because he didn't know me. On occasion I gave Chesty a handful of oats or an apple core, but I considered the animal's studied indifference to me as a positive. Who in the hell would want a personal relationship with a horse?
We spent about four hours each morning with the horse, which included riding, grooming, and cleaning equipment. Riding every day explained why there were so few fat men in the cavalry. Except for a few dismounted jobs, like the supply sergeant, dining room orderly, and cooks, everyone else in the troop rode about three hours a day. A man could eat all he wanted, but daily riding kept his weight down to trim. We spent the afternoons learning the parts, and how to fieldstrip our rifles and pistols. We also practiced dismounted drill in the afternoons, studied cavalry tactics, map reading, and military courtesy, and memorized our General Orders (which I knew already). One afternoon each week was spent clipping horses at the stables. The horses weren't clipped in the winter, except for roaching manes. It was possible to get hurt clipping horses, too, because many of them didn't like it, but those who fought the idea were held still with ear or nose twitches.
Since I was broke, I didn't take any Saturday passes. I was waiting for payday, but payday came as a shock. Payday was a holiday, but it was a cavalry-style payday, meaning that we had to groom horses from 7:30 to 9:30am before marching back to the troop area for pay call.
Sergeant Brasely made his famous payday speech, and as I learned later, it was the same lecture every payday.
“If you're going to get drunk, get drunk. If you're going to get fucked, get fucked. But whatever you do, don't get drunk and fucked. If you do, you won't take precautions, and if you don't take precautions, you'll get a dose of clap. Some men'll tell you that a dose of clap's no worse than a bad cold. That's a goddamned lie. You'll be told by some men that they've had eight doses of clap and got rid of every dose but the first one. That's closer to the truth. Clap will make an old man out of you before you're thirty. So just remember the simple rule. if you're going to get drunk, get drunk. If you're going to get fucked, get fucked. But don't get drunk and get fucked at the same time!”
Parker, the actor, was appalled by the first sergeant's speech. He had never heard anyone talk like that before, using such strong language. I told him if he ever got the clap and had to see Sergeant Brasely, he would probably hear language a lot stronger than that.
The shock came when we went through the pay line. Except for a book of show tickets ($1.20), laundry ($1.50), and dryt cleaning ($2.00) and 25¢ for the old Soldiers' Home, I had a good chunk of pay coming to me. To my surprise, I was only handed $1.50. “There's been some kind of mistake, Sergeant Brasely,” I said.
“Not at all. The rest of your pay will be held until you finish basic. Step back a pace, salute the captain, and get the fuck out of the orderly room.”
Back in the squadroom, Furler, Micaloni, and I met and talked about the situation. We had all received just $1.50• When pay call was over Corporal Royale gathered the platoon together and explained:
“Everyone gets a buck-fifty, and that's all. That's for your toilet articles, and if you smoke, Bull Durham. The rest of your money will be held in the troop safe. At the end of ninety days, when you finish basic, you'll all be given a three-day pass and the rest of your money. On the tenth, for those who feel the need, I'll be able to issue you a three-dollar book of canteen checks. But that’s the way we work it here.”
“That's one thing you can't do,” Furler said angrily. “Hold back a man's pay. I'm entitled to my pay and I want it.”
“That's tough shit,” Corporal Royale said.
“He's right, Corporal,” 1 said. “You really can't hold a man's pay for him against his will. There're regulations against it.”
“But we're doing it,” Corporal Royale said. “Any more questions before I give out passes?”
“Does the captain know about this?” Micaloni asked.
Corporal Royale smiled and shook his head. “Do you think, you fucking wop, that we could withhold your pay without the Captain knowing about it? I know how you feel now, but I’ll tell you one thing: when you get your three-day pass and three months' pay at the end of basic training you'll thank me for #your pass, or I’ll teaupUP your fucking pass.”
I smiled when I took my pass, although I didn't think I would use it. After lunch I slept all afternoon. Then I borrowed a dollar from Parker, whose mother sent him money in every letter she wrote to him from Glendale, and I went into town with Micaloni and Furler. We each bought a package of tailormades, Dominoes for ten cents a pack, and then went down to Cannery Row. The sardine factories were in full operation, as they would be until midnight or later. At the first factory, where there was a covered overhead conveyor belt from one building to another, we started wheedling sardines, calling up to the sardine queens. These women ignored us at first, but they finally weakened and tossed down twelve cans of sardines. We bought some onions, three loaves of Italian bread, and a gallon of zinfandel at the Chinaman's store on the Row, and went down to the curving Monterey beach. We built a driftwood fire, took the insides out of the loaves of bread, and packed the loaves with layers of chopped onions and sardines. Sitting around the fire, we ate the sandwiches and drank the wine. It turned out to be a very pleasant payday, even though we didn't have enough money to get laid.
“This sure as hell beats the marines,” Furler said. “My ass is sore as a boil from riding, but at least they don't have us on a four-on, eight-off schedule. That's something I never got used to in the marines. A four-hour watch, followed by eight hours off, sounds easy enough, but it isn't. You always have a lot of things to do during your off hours, and then, there you are, back on another four-hour watch before you know it. Except when I was on leave, I never had enough sleep. The four-on, eight-off just goes on and on, month after month, and you think you'll go crazy.”
We had plenty of things to talk about, as the wine loosened us up a little. None of us had thought that our training would be so hard, for one thing, or that Corporal Royale could get away with so much. For example, when Shimer moved his head while executing a right shoulder arms, Corporal Royale hit Shimer in the back of the head with a rifle butt, knocking the kid unconscious.
“He shouldn't be allowed to get away with shit like that,” Micaloni said.
“In boot camp, anything goes,” Furler said. “In a lot of ways, it was much worse than this at Parris Island. None of our D.I.’s ever hit anyone with a rifle butt, but they did things like making a man dig a six-by-six-foot hole to bury a cigarette butt. Here, at least, there's no chickenshit. Everything's done for a man's own good. You'll notice that no one ever moves his head any longer when we go through the manual of arms. Sometimes a hard lesson is a good one for everybody.”
“As long as it was Shimer,” I said, “and not one of us.”
We laughed at that. The wine had mellowed us, and the juicy sandwiches and the crackling fire had made us a little sleepy. Although we had all complained at first about the 9pm bedcheck, we were so fatigued each night that we were all ready for bed before 9. So at 9:30 we kicked out the fire and made the long climb back up the hill to Machine Gun Troop.
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