And There I Was # 12

 And There I was # 12

Not All Lives are Lost in Combat

Dirt and gravel sprayed up in a perfect arc as the five-ton bridge hauler (M-945) plowed into the bar-ditch. The passenger side front wheel collapsed, the bumper dug in, and the entire truck and bridge component it was carrying slow-rolled grinding the canvass toped cab into the dirt as BII and other debris scattered across the central Texas landscape. Horrified, I braked, downshifted, and scrunched to a halt enveloped in a cloud of dust. A couple of other convoy vehicles, unable to slow down quickly enough, rushed past and pulled over. We all pelted to the hulking wreck hoping for the best as a lime green Ford Escort exited the Interstate and disappeared down the access road.

Convoy operations consumed much of the training schedule in the early and mid-eighties. Of course as a SPC, I did not give it much thought. By now, I’d figured out that if I showed up at the right place, at the right time, in the right uniform, and did what I was told, life was good. It seemed as if our commander had a special love of convoys. Every post FTX involved driving around the impact area of Fort Hood, and we were always moving equipment from one place to another. I often wondered how much heavy engineer equipment the Army actually had. Sometimes it was a short trip up to a MATES facility to borrow or store some odd piece of equipment.

I always enjoyed trips to the MATES facility. In the early eighties, all of the men who worked there were ancient crusty NCOs or Warrants; many of which I was convinced had ridden with General “Blackjack” Pershing. They were not above yanking your chain or sending you on a wild-goose chase (I still haven’t found frequency grease). But, if you were patient, they eventually finished their war story and provided one with excellent information…sometimes it was even about military equipment still in the inventory. Periodically we trekked out to a Texas Army National Guard Armory to deliver some bit of heavy equipment. I found the number of Armories Texas had tucked away in small towns amazing. 

So there we were, running up to an Armory in Abilene, northwest central Texas for those who care. A new lieutenant led this convoy. A recent arrival to the battalion, he worked in the S-3 (operations section) while waiting for a platoon leader slot to open up. As an officer, he occupied a position far removed from my day-to-day existence or realm of care. He was there in the motor pool before duty call, calmly oversaw the lineup of the small convoy, quickly inspected the vehicles, and gave an appropriate safety briefing. He then turned the speaking over to SFC Williams, the Convoy NCOIC. We all knew SFC Williams as one of the more capable NCOs in the battalion. He was a grizzled old hand and gave us a thorough briefing on the convoy route and procedures, handing out strip maps. As a junior soldier, I was assigned an aging duce and a half carrying an assortment of rations and spare parts the motor warrant thought we might need. I should have paid attention to the strip map; but knew that I was to follow the five-ton, which was even slower than my old duce. I figured as long as I kept up with the five-ton all would be well. After he finished, SFC Williams turned to the lieutenant and asked if he had anything else to say. I noted that SFC Williams nodded appreciatively when the LT replied, “Not really, just be safe out there and let’s mount up and get on the road.”

We all knew that the SFC was training the LT. He had carefully walked him through all what would take place the day before, made sure he knew what to say, and would report back to the CSM concerning his LTs performance. Our battalion was a good one. The old soldiers brought the new ones…me included…along with very little fanfare. The CDR and CSM were in charge without being overbearing about it. We worked hard, played hard, and took our lumps when required. It was an excellent place to be a young troop.

Several droning hours later, we were somewhere north and west of Fort Hood. The convoy had proceeded with nothing unusual. We took the occasional smoke break, during which the LT and the SFC walked up and down the line, checking on vehicles and drivers. We stopped for lunch, ate C-Rations, and griped. I’d been introduced to MREs in basic at Fort Leonard-Wood, but we were still working the C-Rats out of the inventory at the 111th. After policing up our trash, we moved out again. The OD vehicles slowly ate up the miles. 

One hazard we all understood was civilian drivers. Big heavy military trucks do not stop quickly, something about the laws of physics. Civilians often wove in and out of convoys trying to make an exit, ignoring the big yellow and black “convoy ahead” or “convoy follows” signs. Everyone had convoy stories to tell about some bone-headed civilian hitting the breaks. So, it did not surprise me when the bright green Ford Escort appeared in my mirror, weaving in and out of the convoy. I understood their frustration and impatience trying to get past the slow-moving line of military vehicles. But I also knew that they did not appreciate how long it takes to slow something that big and heavy down.

Eventually, they worked their way up to the space between me and the five-ton. I backed off a bit, giving myself a bit of space. Sure enough, when they thought they were clear, they darted out and headed around the lumbering bridge truck. They must not have realized how close to their exit they were. Suddenly they swerved back in front of the bridge truck, slammed on their brakes, and aimed for the fast-approaching exit. At this point, the laws of physics took over.

Smoke roiled as the five-ton driver stood on his brakes, but there was no way to avoid crushing the little car. Then he turned toward the bar-ditch, hoping to avoid the Ford. He managed to not hit the small car, at the cost of the five-ton, his life, as well as that of his TC’s. We ran up to the pinging wreck and around to the front. The crushed blood-smeared cab spoke eloquently of two lives lost. There was nothing to be done. All the weight of the truck and bridge and ground out two lives as surely as I ground out cigarette buts on the roadside. 

Later I felt badly for the LT and SFC. They’d done everything right. This was not their fault and no one blamed them…but they blamed themselves. Oh, they got past it of course. But those sorts of things leave a mark. They went on with their careers. I have no idea what happened to them. SFC Williams surely became an MSG, probably a CSM. The LT probably made CPT; however, this was a day none of us would forget. The Army is a tough place and at times a very dangerous place, even when you do the right thing.