Deep Thinkin’ Country Boys

© 2004 Ken Overcast

Country boys tend to make some of the best

soldiers. It isn't any coincidence that during World

War II, the First Special Forces unit was trained

and headquartered in Fort Harrison near Helena,

Montana. It also wasn't by accident that it was

comprised largely of country boys who had

recently spent their formidable teenage years

trying their level best to help their families

survive the drought and financial challenges of

the Great Depression. They were a tough bunch

of dudes.

When exposed to the harsh rigorous physical

training of boot camp, those guys probably actually

lost a little of their muscle tone. Young men in their

prime that are accustomed to hard manual labor

from sun to sun tend to get a little on the wirey order.

There is one problem with country boys and the

military, though. Their life of self sufficiency tends

to make them think for themselves. The US Army

views that particular trait as an affliction rather than

an asset. Oh, it isn't that that they don't know how

to take orders or that they refuse to treat their

superiors with respect, it's just that they don't have

an inclination to leave their brains at home when

they enlist.

I was in the Montana National Guard back in the

60's, and got a first hand view of how country boys

operate. We were an armored unit, and were trained

in M48 tanks. The country boys soon learned that

when they were sent out to fire the 90mm main gun,

that there was a way to get back out of the field and

back into town a little more quickly.

The superiors wanted to spend all day long on the

firing range, 'practicing', but the country boys for

some reason thought that the poker game back at

the barracks was something that was fairly important.

They couldn't go back to town until: A. The ammunition

was all expended in target practice; or B. The targets

were all blown down. Why spend all day long out there

shooting up that valuable ammunition?

'Just aim for the edges and blow the targets down,

boys and we can go back to town.'

'The edges' were the two by six's that were on

each side of the white cloth targets. The targets

themselves were about six feet square and around

1500 meters away. Some were stationary, and some

were moving. You just have to hit the boards on the

edge of the target, and she falls down. A six inch

target isn't all that big at that range, but much to the

chagrin of the 'by the book' officers in charge, those

boys knocked 'em down ever' time. But then, I guess

if you can hit a six inch moving target at 1500 meters

maybe you don't need that much practice.

Dick Bressler was a staff sergeant, and the tank

commander on a war games mission I was on in the

desert south of Boise one summer. I'm not sure if

Dick had an official drinkin' problem or not, but he

sure did like the stuff. Bein' one of those country

boy thinker types I was telling you about, he

discovered that he could take a little nip along on

this 'silly little game', and keep it fairly safe from

probing eyes by sliding the breach open on the 90mm

main gun and slipping his fifth of booze in there. After

all, a bottle of booze is just a little smaller that 90mm,

so in Dick's eyes the hiding place was almost perfect.

He was so proud of himself that he took a little drink

right after breakfast.

Dick really knew about military tactics and

strategy, but just couldn't see any reason to take a

game too seriously. I was the gunner on this

particular mission where we were to be an aggressor

in the war games. It was near the close of our

summer training period, and everyone but us got

to go back to town. None of the crew was too happy

about being chosen, but someone had to do it, so

we just made the best of it. We were to help test

the readiness of a unit of infantry and armor several

miles south in the desert near the Snake River. Dick

had another little snifter off his stash.

The tank gunner is the second in command, and

the only guy on one of those machines that can't stick

his head out and see where he's going, so I pulled

rank on the driver, and made him ride down where

he couldn't see, and I took over the driving job. The

former driver got back in the gunner's chair, and

Dick took another little swig.

They furnished us with a map of where we were

to go, so Sergeant Dick had one for the road and

away we went. We took a dirt road straight south

for several miles, turned at a large cone shaped

mountain, and went straight east for several more

miles. Dick had a drink to celebrate. We then came

to another large cone shaped old volcanic mountain,

and turned straight south again for several more

miles. Dick had another little nip.

We got to our destination just before dark, and

took our ordered position. We were to do a war

game ambush on a night convoy coming by. It was

sort of fun actually, as we were all loaded up with

blank rounds for the machine guns. Dick had

another blast or two from his bottle.

We did our little job, and were scheduled to

head back into the base at daylight. Dick would

have celebrated the sun coming up, but

unfortunately by now his stash had gone dry. I

turned the tank north up the road towards town,

which was probably forty or fifty miles away, and

seeing those two conical shaped mountains

looming on the horizon in that vast sea of desert,

got a brilliant idea.

'Sergeant Bressler' I inquired over our

intercom radio to my commander, 'let's cut

across. If we just head northwest right between

those two mountains, and keep on that heading

we'll hit the road again about ten miles south of

town. It'll save us two or three hours of drivin'

time. Whaddaya say?'

I got an immediate answer. 'Sshsmifix. Berful

mekel gibelixxsson.'

I know, I know.... I couldn't understand it

either, but because it was such a good idea I just

naturally assumed that he meant OK. I headed

the fifty tons of armor angling off across the

desert as fast as she'd go. We had sand and

dust fifty feet in the air behind us as I dropped

the hammer and to town we went. The calculations

were brilliant, if I must say so myself, and we hit

the road again a few miles south of town just like

I'd figured we would.

When we arrived the entire base was in an

uproar. It seems that the most of the day's

operations had been interrupted. Country boys

are thinkers, remember? They think on their feet,

and find ways to save time and money, right? At

least they do if they have all the facts to make

the right decisions.

'What's goin' on?' I hollered at a sergeant,

seeing the base in a turmoil.

'They had to shut six artillery ranges down.

Some idiot in a tank drove right across 'em, and

screwed up the whole day. They're out there lookin'

for the tank now. Heaven help those guys if they

catch up with 'em.'

Of course, we hadn't seen a thing. So much for

thinkin' for yourself and savin' the government a

little money.

Keep Smilin....

and don't forget to check yer cinch.

Ken Overcast is a recording cowboy singer that

ranches on Lodge Creek in North Central Montana

where he raises and dispenses B.S.