Boys for Men

Boys for Men

Derrick Wolf

Language: English

Pages: 563

ISBN: B0172NGA42

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The true stories of two soldiers. Though they are separated by almost 100 years, the similarities in their experiences are striking.

When Derrick Wolf left the U.S. for Vietnam in 1970 on January 6th, the day of Epiphany, little did he realize what a prophetic day it would turn out to be for him. Boys for Men is a journal of his tour of duty. Wolf tells of the grim daily routine of a tank crew near the De-militarized Zone just south of North Vietnam. From the near constant rain during monsoon to the unbearable high temperatures and humidity of the dry season, life becomes a series of long periods of boredom and hardship interrupted abruptly by deadly situations.

Combined with Wolf’s stories are excerpts of the previously unpublished 1876 journal of Sylvester Waltz, an infantryman during the Great Sioux War. Waltz was a member of the Yellowstone Expedition, which culminated in the Battle of the Little Bighorn where General George Armstrong Custer was killed and his forces defeated.

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loader's lucky day, but I decide it's mine also. I rummage around in my driver's compartment for my steel helmet and take it with me to the water buffalo, which is boo coo far. I fill my helmet almost all the way, and then I slowly and carefully walk back to 2-3 so that I only spill a tee tee bit. When I get back, I set the water filled helmet in the sun to warm up a tee tee bit. It shouldn't take long, especially since the water is already quite warm. While my water heats in the sun, I start

of the breeze we get from driving. But we don't travel for more than a klik with 2-3 in the lead when Our Idiot Platoon Sgt. has me slow down and eventually turn south off of the redball and into the bush, breaking brush. I have to get my hated .45 and reluctantly load it and - even more reluctantly - chamber a round. I put it on safe. Why, I don't know. Habit, I guess. I lay my hated .45 on my lap and point it at my .50 Cal. ammo box. If a bullet were to ricochet around in the driver's

Our field of view is so good, I don't even consider having my hated .45 on my lap, let alone loading it. Finally I can see where I am going, and someone I trust is mine sweeping. But it will be dark soon and The Scary Time. Any tee tee good feelings I have now won't last long. We proceed at walking pace for at least a half an hour. We pass one clearing that could have been a suitable RON before we arrive at our intended RON. We have been here before, but the vegetation has recovered from our

bread. We would just about kill for bread. The rest of the platoon members of the P.C. crews are at the motor pool. Some stay for a c-rat lunch, and some sky for the mess hall. I have another look inside the driver's compartment. Now that I realize where some of the main gun ammo is stored, I can see it's going to be a tight fit. Plus what the tight fit is from: live ammo right next to me on both sides. If I hit a land mine and the ammo next to me goes off, they won't even find my dog tags! No

load the ammo on 2-3. We also fill the fuel tank, and of course I get diesel fuel all over my hands and fatigues. Tanker Aftershave, we call it around here. Fanelli and I are finishing up our dinner when Our Dear Platoon Sgt. returns. He must have a drinking buddy in the platoon or one of the other platoons. He is blasted, and I don't think he even had any of the hot chow, which is the only food I ever see him eat. He's got a small bag with him. I can only guess what's in it. He somehow manages

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