Curt Walthall
144th Infantry

Area G was 18 miles in the boondocks from Camp Bowie and we spent a lot of time out there training to be field soldiers. Each Sunday afternoon we would March out to the bivouac area and return to camp Friday night just in time to wash our web gear and get ready for Saturday morning inspection.

There were originally eight hills on our route of march and we would count them off wearily one at a time as we drew nearer to camp. After a few weeks we ground the eighth hill down level when we changed to parade step as the 144th Infantry Band led us on into camp with their peppy music. Forgiven was the many mornings they routed us out of our warm sacks, marching up the regimental street before reveille blaring out "MARIE, THE DAWN IS BREAKING", or the jolting "ROLL OUT THE BARREL". Now our tired old legs regained new vigor as we stepped smartly to the martial music. One fellow yelled, "Hell, I could have made the last 17 miles easier if the band had been with us all the way". (NOTE: the 144th Band was transferred from the regiment in 1944 and later became the 13th Armored Division Band.)

The above was the normal weekly routine, but one lowly Corporal discovered to his regret that the Army can occasionally break with routine without notice. This particular Friday his squad was given the mission of closing the company latrines. (No doubt a reward for their aggressive map reading problems this week) "Close the latrines and join the company in the assembly area for the journey back to camp", yelled Sergeant Russel.

While the squad was busy shoveling the learned Corporal noted on his map that the company assembly area was three miles farther from camp than his present position. If the squad marched the three miles to the assembly area, then to camp, they would travel a total of 21 miles while the company marched only 18. This was not only unfair, but against the principle of "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line." He noted that if his squad marched at an angle to the main road, they would come out at the third hill and thereby be several miles ahead of the main body. As far as he was concerned his squad was to be the point and arrive back in camp when the cleaning facilities would be the least crowded. Also they could razz the other less fortunate troops as they arrived. (Though an eighth grade dropout—the Army was teaching this corporal some smart).

He explained his plan to the squad (code name: Shortcut) and they agreed with this shortened route. They admired his superior strategy. (Sadly, this admiration would not last out the day).

The troops whooped loudly as they walked onto the main road at the third hill and boisterously asked the corporal why he didn’t volunteer them every week to be the point. As they walked by hill four they heard the sound of approaching vehicles, then they stared dumbfounded as a convoy of trucks passed with B Company’s guidon flapping in the breeze. The crestfallen latrine detail were riddled with catcalls galore from the rear of the vehicles as the now mobile B Company swept by. The corporal had picked the wrong time and place to use his new-found smart.

There was no band to usher in the tired hikers this day. Though Oren Phelps, the boogie-woogie bugler boy of Company "B", did blow them a razzberry on his bugle as they trudged into the company street. No one likes a smart-ass.

The cleaning facility had ample room as the remainder of the company had completed cleaning their web gear, weapons, etc., and this chore now lay ahead of the weary hikers. The corporal learned a lesson, his squad learned to hate him, and he had to eat at a table by himself for awhile. Squad members, if you’re still alive—please forgive me . . .