Training Days

Teaching war to save lives.

by Huddie L. Burress

While thinking about writing this essay, I became filled with a very strong sense of emotion and pride. The Army was my home for 27 years and taught me about many aspects of life, honor, courage and sacrifice. I enlisted 42 years ago, and remember getting my orders and reporting to the induction station in Cleveland, Ohio.

After numerous assignments around the world, I arrived at Ft. Campbell, Ky., in 1968. I had earned the rank of E-5 and was assigned to the basic training unit as an instructor. At this particular time, Vietnam was raging, and I was teaching the arts of war for two years when the 173rd Airborne Unit returned from 'Nam. Their return was an eye-opening experience for me to the harsh realities of war. Soon after, one of my best friends and fellow drill sergeants received orders to go to 'Nam. Two and a half months later, I got a letter stating that he had been killed during a firefight while his unit was on patrol. Even with all the training we went through, I became painfully aware, nobody is invisible from the specter of death. His passing made me want to give the best training to my men that I possibly could.

Because of the draft, men only a few years younger than me had to go to war. One of my early trainees was a friend from back home in Cleveland. He didn't want to admit that he knew me, for fear of me or another instructor being harder on him because of our friendship. On the day of his graduation he came up to me and thanked me.

As the war's intensity heightened, I returned to Ft. Dix, not as a raw recruit, but as a senior drill sergeant. More of my friends and fellow soldiers were being killed and my training style intensified. Another former trainee returned from 'Nam as a sergeant and told me of the things he saw during his tour. It was a very emotional moment as we hugged on the training field and he told me how my training helped save his life. I learned at that moment how important each person's job in the military was, and that the men training for war were receiving the highest standard of training possible.

When it finally came time for my retirement, I was glad to have been called a soldier in the United States Army.

As a retired veteran, I was filled with memories of training men as I watched the war in Iraq unfold on television. Civilian friends expressed the pros and cons of the war to me, and the strain of war came over me again as I thought of the young men and women being put into harm's way. This really hit home when my friend -- a fellow retired veteran -- told me with tears in his eyes that his son, Army Staff Sgt. Terry W. Hemingway, had just been killed in Iraq. For the first time in my life I was stunned to the point of silence. I knew the pain and hurt he was going through, and we cried together.

As funeral arrangements were being made I meditated on my life as a soldier and all that it brought, both good and bad. I know from being a soldier that the thoughts of being killed in the service of your country weigh heavily on those in the military. But I can say without doubt or hesitation I'd preferred being a soldier to any job I've ever had.

Staff Sgt. Hemingway's death hits close to home not just because he was a fellow soldier, or my friend's son, but also because he was a fellow resident of Willingboro, N.J., and a member of my church. At his funeral I felt a sense of pride at the number of people in attendance. Honor guards from Washington, D.C., major generals and state representatives, as well as relatives, friends and strangers filled the church. Due to the large crowds I watched the ceremony on a wide-screen TV in the church's basement. I was so honored by this young man's sacrifice that I wore my own uniform to honor him and show my respect for what he did.

When I hear civilians speak and say that they would never be a soldier, I simply smile and think to myself, not everybody can be a soldier.

(slant@citypaper.net)

Huddie L. Burress retired from active military service in 1988 and has just retired from the New Jersey Department of Corrections after 15 years. If you would like to respond to this Slant or have one of your own (850 words), contact Howard Altman, City Paper editor in chief, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail altman@citypaper.net.