Camp haan

Camp Haan Beliebte Orte in De Haan

Bogen Camp, Haan. 59 likes. Bogenschießen zum Kennenlernen. Interesse am Bogensport und noch keine Erfahrung gesammelt. Hier gibt es eine Einführung. Bogen Camp, Haan. 59 свиђања. Bogenschießen zum Kennenlernen. Interesse am Bogensport und noch keine Erfahrung gesammelt. Hier gibt es eine. Das Unternehmen Bogensport Haan bietet in Kursen eine fundierte Ausbildung im Bogensport an. Für erfahrende Schützen werden weiterführende. Kaufen Sie Camp Haan Armee Boden – Riverside, California Lizenz Rahmen im Auto & Motorrad-Shop auf michaelmagnusson.se Große Auswahl und Gratis Lieferung. Kinder + Jugend Summer Camp. Das Camp für alle Kids und Jugendlichen von 6​ Jahren. Geboten wird eine Woche voller Sport: Der Schwerpunkt ist Tennis.

Camp haan

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While he had us in formation at attention, he would give rambling discourses about how he had stopped some enlisted man or men in or out of the camp for their infringement on military discipline.

For example, he told the story about a GI who had stopped in a Jeep, given him a salute, and then asked for directions.

He was "outraged" that the GI had not stepped out of the Jeep before approaching him. Some of the things Mc Kee said were really off the wall.

One day while he had us together in formation, he asked, "Do any of you men use a washcloth while showering or an umbrella when it is raining?

By this time we were already sick of his nutty stories. We knew where he was going with this poll and, despite the fact we did not use those appliances, we wanted to be on the losing side just to get a rise out of him.

He said: "I wish that I could get all of you with your hands up transferred out of his outfit because real men don't use washcloths or umbrellas.

In reality, I doubt if there was a washcloth or umbrella in the whole camp, and if he was talking about civilian life, the question sounded even more bizarre.

We were all hoping that he really meant it about the transfers because we would have taken him up on it in a minute. Another time, he made a big thing about how some enlisted men had "had the nerve" to move into the officers' seating section at the camp's movie theater.

We were told later by men who had been there that the enlisted men's section had been full and there were several rows in the back of the officer's section that were not being used.

We did not know what disciplinary action he took with the culprits, but we could imagine from his raving he would have liked to lock them up in the camp brig.

We felt his overbearing reaction to insignificant things was the result of his lack of confidence because of his size and a cover for his incompetence.

After being dismissed from a formation where we had to listen to one of these tirades by Mc Kee, one GI commented "If he puts his hand inside the front of his blouse, you can bet that that little bastard is Napoleon in reincarnation.

I thought it was too kind. As it turned out, when we got overseas, the only time we saw Captain Mc Kee was in convoys. He never came out to our gun positions.

I guess he was too busy with paperwork back at headquarters. Our only revenge to his continuous put-downs, and it was a weak revenge, was to talk about him in private, which we did constantly but anything bad we could say about him would let him off too easily.

What a jerk he was! We had all expected to be subjected to the military discipline of the army and to respect rank, but Mc Kee had a nasty way of rubbing our noses in it.

Both Mc Kee and Monteleone were the constant subjects of our conversations. None of it was favorable. What really surprised us about them came when we learned over time they were antagonists.

The first inkling came when we heard from men who lived in the huts near the orderly room that they had many arguments. We also picked up some unusual exchanges between them when they had us in formation.

We learned Mc Kee felt Monteleone's abrasive and uncouth manner was not good military practice. While he respected his complete control over us, he did not like the vulgar manner he used continuously.

Monteleone disliked Mc Kee primarily because Monteleone did not like anybody. He thought Mc Kee was a weekend warrior who had received his rank through the National Guard instead of coming up through the ranks in the regular Army.

Monteleone had been overheard at the PX one evening when he had his fill of beer saying, "I know more about running a battery than that fing excuse for a captain ever will.

The way they spoke to each other, the looks of contempt, and the overreaction to Mc Kee's commands by Monteleone were all too obvious.

An example of this animosity was highlighted one day after our normal duties were completed. Mc Kee ordered Monteleone to take us to the parade ground to do some close order drilling and calisthenics as punishment for some infraction we had done during the day's routine.

While Monteleone was never shy about giving us extra duty, this day he wanted to do something else and he said so to Mc Kee.

Mc Kee replied that he wanted him "personally" to take this assignment as he saw an opportunity to do two things, punish the troops, and show his authority over Monteleone.

As soon as we left the battery area, we were put into "route step. We knew something was up. When we got to the drill field, we expected to be given a real workout.

Instead, Monteleone put us at ease and proceeded to waste time talking to one of his cadre members. After about half an hour, he stepped out in front of us again and announced that we were now going to start calisthenics.

We were all expecting the worst. Monteleone then announced, "I want every man to extend his right arm straight out. Now in cadence bring your index finger out on the count of one and in on the count of two.

One, two - one two, etc. This exercise is to strengthen your trigger finger so you will be better riflemen. Some men laughed, but Monteleone did not smile and the happy faces turned sour.

After about five minutes of this ridiculous maneuver, we were marched back to our huts. As we neared the area, Monteleone brought us to attention, raised his voice a few notches, and barked the marching orders with new vigor.

He was trying to convey the message to Mc Kee or any other officers still in the area that he had really taken these troops out for a real workout.

When we were dismissed, there were a lot of mystified soldiers. We later concluded the thing that made Monteleone happiest was to show the troops he was not completely subjugated to Mc Kee.

The other officers in our battery, like all officers, had been well-indoctrinated with the caste system of the Army that set out the vast difference between the officers and enlisted men.

There was no crossing over the line between the two groups. Their authoritarian attitude left no doubt they were part of a suppressive command that was to dominate the enlisted men.

They would occasionally engage us in small talk, but they seldom acted like they had their hearts in it. They always gave us the impression that, yes, they knew how to be sociable, but we shouldn't forget they still gave the orders and we obeyed them.

In hindsight, some of their attitude may have had to do with the person directly over them in command. They had to follow the directions and please an eccentric captain, and they had to associate with him much more closely than we did.

For our part, the enlisted men met any fraternizing by the officers with smiles of ready acceptance even though those, too, were not completely earnest.

We would become so firmly indoctrinated in military discipline we felt we had to respond to authority, even to what could be construed as phony social acceptance by this authority, with a favorable reception.

We knew it was not an earnest attempt on their part to develop any kind of friendship, but we accepted any pleasantness as relief from the almost constant barrage of orders they put upon us.

We, too, were playing at the game of pretense, and the smiles were mainly phony on both sides. While we appeared to be engrossed in their every word, our thoughts during these short sessions-and they usually were short-were ones of apathy while our faces shone with approval.

Anything we could do to take some pressure off of us was worth doing a little acting. We knew there was not going to be any kind of a lasting relationship to come out of this because their officer's code forbade them from socializing with us in off hours.

There would be no three-day passes together or even a glass of beer while sitting side by side at a bar in the nearby town.

And, so, the bridge between enlisted men and officers was being built on a fallacious foundation that resulted in a strained relationship between the two groups the entire time we were together in the service.

While we were critical of the officers, we were also jealous of them; of the privileges they enjoyed, the prestige involved, even the pay they received.

We were jealous of their dress uniforms with the hand-tailored jackets, gray-pink pants, brass buttons, and, most important, those metal symbols of power attached to their collars or set at the outer reaches of their shoulders.

In our periods of fanaticizing, we would gladly have changed places with them. When the officers or cadre members gave us orders it was like a judge handing down a sentence to a criminal, except there was no appeal process.

Any attempt to plead our cases or to even comment on them produced a harsh reprimand. There was no excuse good enough for not obeying a command instantly, no matter how implausible it might be.

We were threatened with dire consequences for "getting out of line. The punishments would lead to extra KP duty, cleaning the latrine, extra guard duty, walking around the battalion area for hours wearing a full field pack, or being restricted to the barracks.

Later in our training, we would be threatened with how more serious violations of something called The Articles of War would lead to further discipline.

The articles would include the phrases "court-martial," "dishonorable discharge," "imprisonment," or even "death by firing squad. We had all experienced discipline from our parents, teachers, and employers before entering the service but nothing like this.

We were now subject to complete mind control with the requirement of immediate reaction to commands and total subjugation to authority.

In many cases, it appeared they were more interested in degrading us than in teaching us anything about military discipline. The aim of the discipline was to break our wills to resist and to think on our own.

To a great degree they succeeded. All but a few of us soon learned to keep our mouths closed and follow orders, even when they drove us beyond our normal physical endurance or made no sense to us at all.

We had to obey. We had to accept their ways, and we could not question. But, in the back of our minds, we knew we were civilians at heart, and we would only have to endure these inequities for a given length of time.

The war would not last forever, and we would eventually be free of this caste system. Many years after the war, a movie came out that included a great line which really condensed the feelings we had as enlisted men in the United States Army.

It stated, "The Army is in the business of defending democracy, not practicing it. A few men still had minds of their own even after our training period resulted in the rest of us being beaten into subjective sheep.

They regularly challenged the high-ranking noncoms and tested the officers' decision-making process. Then those in charge decided on one of two alternatives.

Was the violation serious enough for a court martial or should it be met with some kind of severe penalty right there in the battery?

While the rest of us often griped about our conditions, we avoided confrontation authority figures. The first two months after we arrived in camp were considered basic training.

During that time, they kept us busy six days a week from sun up to sun down. Then there was a gradual reduction until our schedule was changed to five and a half days a week, with the evening meal signaling the end of the day Monday through Friday and the parade on Saturday.

However, that did not mean all duties stopped for everybody at those times. There were often special assignments like KP, guard duty, penalty duties, and night operations thrown in to keep us on edge.

While there was no typical day at Camp Haan, every day started the same at Sergeant Monteleone awakened us for first call as he walked down the street between the huts with his mouth spewing one-liners like an open sewer.

On the way back to the orderly room, he would stop at certain huts, bang the screen doors open and shut a few times as loudly as he could, and shout at anyone still in bed, with all his shouts peppered with obscenities and dirty expressions only he thought clever.

The first thing we did was to pull on our shoes and fatigue pants. We grabbed our shaving gear and hurried down to the latrine in hopes of beating some of the crowd.

There, we shaved, washed, showered, and used the toilet facilities. Returning to our huts, we finished dressing, made our bed, and straightened up the huts.

As part of dressing, we had to lace up our cloth leggings. At , one of the staff sergeants would come down the street continually yelling, "Fall out!

Monteleone would be standing out in the street facing the place we were to line up in formation. He would be shouting at a constant cadence, "Fall in!

Fall in! We lined up in two groups with each representing a platoon. Each group had four rows, each row being a fifteen-man gun section.

We stood there in our prescribed location but not at attention. When everyone was in place, Monteleone, who was still standing facing us, would shout, "Atteeen hut!

There were more shouts of "Straighten those lines! Roll call consisted of each of us responding "Here! The section leader took roll call for each gun section, and they in turn reported to the platoon sergeant.

The two platoon sergeants would then take turns shouting to the first sergeant, "All present and accounted for! Monteleone would then turn back to us, expound a couple of obscenity-laced threats, then yell, "Dismissed!

Then it was back to the huts and wait for breakfast to be served. About fifteen minutes after being dismissed from formation, one of the cooks would stick his head out of the mess hall and shout, "Chow call!

If you were really hungry, you lined up before the call so you would be near the front. There were three full meals a day that most of us looked forward to with great anticipation.

Army food was high in starch and everyone, including me, put on weight despite the great amount of physical activity we were doing.

When we entered the mess hall, we picked up plates and silverware. The food was spooned out of large cooking pans by the cooks who filled our plates as we passed them.

We then sat at wooden picnic tables to eat. We always picked a buddy or two to sit with during the meal. The person in charge of the mess hall was Staff Sergeant Frank Emerling.

In civilian life, he had been a chef at a major hotel in Los Angeles. He was really good at his trade, and when he was around we ate well-prepared food.

However, Emerling had one propensity, which turned out to be a detriment to us as well as to himself. He hated the Army with such a passion that he would go AWOL a lot and be punished with the loss of his stripes.

No matter who took his place, the quality of the food would deteriorate badly. It was amazing to see the change in the quality of meals we got, even though the rations going into the kitchen remained about the same.

For example, without Emerling on duty, beef would be served only as hamburger or stew meat and the desert would go from homemade sheet cake with chocolate frosting to fruit cocktail out of a can.

It did not take long for the officers, who ate with us but at separate tables, to tire of the second-rate food, and Emerling would be back in charge of the kitchens with his staff sergeant rank restored.

That sequence happened three times in the course of our training and then again when we were overseas. We kidded him about having zippers on his stripes to make them easy to remove and put back on again.

After finishing our first meal of the day, we picked up our dishes, scraped them into garbage cans, and stacked them for the KPs to wash later.

We then went back to the huts or to the latrine for last-minute cleanup. At , to the sergeant's command of "Fall out," we lined up in formation out in the street again.

Every morning, at this first formation after breakfast, anyone who was sick or felt something was wrong with him would be told to assemble in front of the battery office, called the Orderly Room.

Their names would be entered in the sick book. Later, these men would be marched to the dispensary to be inspected by a doctor or a medic.

The procedure was referred to as sick call. Out of the five or six guys who reported being sick, several would be there almost every day. Their malady usually consisted of something not readily discernible to the medics.

A common one was, "I have this awful pain in my back. These men were known as the goof-offs of the outfit who would do anything to get out of a day's work.

I don't remember anyone in our gun crew ever going on sick call because we were all in the best physical condition we had ever been in.

Also, there were some horror stories going around about the dispensing of medicines by medics who flunked out of medical school. They were probably rumors started by the sergeants to discourage us from going there.

Anyone who worked in the dispensary, regardless of rank, was called a pill pusher. Following sick call, we did calisthenics, which usually took about half an hour.

The sergeant would spread us out in the formation by calling us to attention, ordering "right shoulder arms," and then putting us at ease again.

The workout usually consisted of arm exercises, deep knee bends, jumping jacks, and push-ups. Occasionally, the sergeant in charge would get lazy and limit the calisthenics to stretching.

After they were done, we had to police the area. We lined up across one end of our campsite and then walked through the area in one straight line, picking up everything that did not belong there.

The sergeants would be behind us to point out anything we missed. They even had a vulgar expression to "encourage" us to bend over and pick up everything.

The first thing they taught us in our training was how to salute, march in formation, and to do close order drill. We marched all over camp doing many different maneuvers.

The drill sergeant, who was usually one of the cadre members, would be shouting out in cadence; "Hut, …, hut, …, hut, two, three, four, hut, hut, … by the right flank …march, by the left flank …march, to the rear march, column left …march, column right …march, detail … halt …parade rest.

Usually, a sergeant would take us out on the streets, march us around for an hour or so and then double time us back to the battery area.

We began to hear these commands and comments in our sleep. We were taught exactly how and what to wear for what they called, the uniform of the day.

It was one of three types: fatigues, khakis, or dress ODs See Figs. We wore fatigues during the day except on Saturdays when we paraded. In the evening and on Sundays, we wore our khakis or the olive drab dress uniform, depending on the weather.

The dress code made everyone looked exactly the same at any given time. There was no room for individuality. There was no mixing of uniforms and any deviation would result in a shout from some sergeant, "You're out of uniform, soldier.

Every piece of clothing had to be done up as described in some Army manual. Certain buttons were to be buttoned while others were not, the pants were to be tucked into and bloused over the leggings in a prescribed manner, the ties on our dress uniforms were to be tied with a single loop and folded into the shirts between two specific buttons, and the list went on.

Even the overseas caps that went with our dress uniforms had to sit on our heads in a prescribed location. They were to be cocked to the right, and the front end set one-inch above the right eyebrow.

These hats had a red cord piped around the top edge designating artillery. The cadre members had a profane name for this article of clothing that is too vulgar to repeat.

For everything we did, there was the right way, the wrong way, and the Army way. Only the Army way counted. We were taught when to and how to speak to officers and noncoms.

We were even instructed on how to strip and dispose of the butts from cigarettes: to open the paper, scatter the tobacco, roll the paper into a tiny ball, then throw it on the ground.

Every day we spent a lot of time on aircraft identification. If we were going to shoot down aircraft, we had better know the enemy from our own.

Because no one knew at the time where they would be sent to following our training, we had to study planes from both the European and Pacific theaters of operation.

We used movies, flash cards See Fig. Despite the constant drill on this subject, some men never seemed to become proficient in identifying planes.

They could not even distinguish between a fighter and a bomber. That bothered me but nothing was ever done about it other than to repeat the identification drills over and over again.

I became convinced this lack of knowledge could cause serious problems if we got into a combat situation. Would there be time to take a vote if we were attacked?

Was I the only one worried about this? Because I had been studying planes since I was in grammar school, I stood out in this area. I soon became the one who did the testing and grading of the other soldiers in our outfit.

At hours, we were back at the mess hall for lunch or what the Army called dinner. It would be the main meal of the day.

Then, it was back into formation where we were marched off to continue our training. We went to the gun park where we fieldstripped the 40mm guns to determine how they operated and learned the official names of the many parts.

There was a drill to see how fast we could lower the gun from its traveling position to a firing position and then a reverse of that procedure.

See Figs. More about the 40mm and some of our other equipment was taught with lectures and movies back in the day room. Manuals were studied and we were tested on how well we memorized the nomenclature of major items.

As a Battalion, we were taken to the camp's obstacle course where we jumped over wooden fences, swung by ropes over ditches, crawled through pipe, and climbed knotted ropes.

There was always some kind of a mythical record we were trying to break as a battalion which was to spur us on to be faster and better than other battalions.

While the sergeants tried to transfer their enthusiasm for breaking the record to us recruits, we somehow never got that excited about it.

To us it was just a lot of hard work and our main goal was to get it over with as soon as possible with the least amount of pain.

A lot of time was spent learning about the M-l. They taught us how to carry it in formations, field strip it, put it back together, and maintain it.

We even had to disassemble and assemble it blindfolded. The gun could be loaded with a clip with eight rounds, and it fired semi-automatic.

That meant you had to pull the trigger for each shot. We learned something called the manual of arms, which is the rigid movement of the rifle to different positions while we were in formation.

It included saluting, carrying, moving it to a shoulder position and back to the ground among other movements. There was no ammunition issued for the rifles until later when we had target practice.

We were issued bayonets and learned how to attach them to the rifle and use them as weapons. There were classes in jabbing with the bayonets, hitting with the butt of the rifle, and other ways of inflicting bodily injury to the enemy.

The training was intended to create a martial attitude that would make us more ferocious warriors. We moved through the drills with intensity, but somehow it did not make a lot of sense to most of us.

In our view, the chances of an antiaircraft crewman having to fight the enemy hand-to-hand seemed quite remote. There was no effort made to sharpen our bayonets and no thought given to them after the drill.

They went back in their scabbards where they remained for the balance of the war and, like the gas masks, became just another piece of equipment added to the load we carried everywhere we went.

Later, the bayonet's main function would turn out to be as a tool for opening wooden cartons and ration cans. Most of us believed if you got close enough to the enemy to use a bayonet, shoot him instead.

Learning to use gas masks was one of the most disliked chapters of our training. We were sent into a building and all doors and windows were closed.

Then, they set off tear gas bombs while our masks were still in their carrying pouches. After the discharge, we had to hold our breath, open the gas mask container, put the mask on, and clear the mask to avoid being affected by the gas.

Not everyone was successful, and there were some violent reactions from those who had not done it in time.

One fellow in our unit had a temporary breakdown from his experience and had to be sent to the hospital for several days. We carried these gas masks every day we were training and when we got overseas.

It was a real pain in the neck lugging them around, and we soon learned to hate them. What we were not told, but should have been, was the reason for the emphasis on everyone carrying a gas mask at all times, at least in a combat zone.

During World War I there had been heavy casualties on both sides from the use of poison gasses. During World War I there were 1,, casualties from chemical warfare gasses, 91, died.

This information would have made carrying the masks a lot easier to tolerate. However, the Army was not out to offer us justifications for what they were doing, only to set rules and force us to obey them.

There were lectures and films in the day room. The films were primarily about our equipment, aircraft identification, military procedures, health, and military discipline.

The films always seemed to come on the hottest days, and we were shut in the day room with all of the windows closed so the shades could be pulled to darken the room.

There was no problem keeping our attention, despite the hot and stuffy room, because the sergeants were right there to make sure we stayed awake.

It was intended to be an indoctrination film for new recruits, and it was American propaganda at its best. It was a powerful documentation of recent history and presented convincing evidence why we were fighting a just war.

The films depicted the United States as a diversified nation with lofty ideals joining together with the Allied Nations to engage the dictatorial tyrants of the Axis countries.

There were seven one-hour series and we would be shown a new chapter about once a month. The first three - Prelude to War, The Nazis Strike, and Divide and Conquer - showed the rise of the totalitarian governments, Germany, Italy and Japan, and their ruthless conquering and oppression of neutral countries.

It was exciting entertainment and a great improvement over most of the dull training films we were exposed to.

The next three chapters - Battle of Britain, The Battle of Russia, and The Battle of China - depicted the Allied powers making progress as the Axis countries began to go on the defense.

The final chapter - War Comes to America- was more political and purely propaganda oriented, showing the folly of having our country follow an isolation policy like we did after World War I, which the film partially blames for causing World War II.

There were many emotional and exciting episodes in these series. Some of the best footage was taken from Nazi films captured by the Allied Army.

There was one scene in this vein that really stuck in my mind for a long period of time. It showed Hitler, Goering and other high-ranking German officials standing around a large wooden table covered with maps celebrating the surrender of France.

Hitler and Goering were bouncing around the room like a couple of kids in a candy store while Goering was wringing his hands gleefully. If it wasn't such a serious matter, the scene could be part of a Hollywood comedy with grown men acting like children.

I looked forward to each successive chapter of that series and I learned a lot about history, propaganda tainted or not. To me the series was entertainment, because it was a relief from our daily grind.

I already knew Hitler and his like were the enemy, so the main purpose of the films in motivating me to go charging out and get him was lost somewhere.

We were also shown sex hygiene films about what happened if we contracted a social disease. The films were really gross, and for the most part they scared the majority of us into behaving ourselves.

I glanced around the room during one very graphic scene and about half of the men in the room were grimacing. The threat of a court martial for anyone who contracted a disease also loomed over our heads.

To make sure we had not contracted one of these diseases, they regularly gave us a physical inspection. About once a month, they would have us all fall out into formation in front of our huts wearing a raincoat, shoes, a helmet liner and nothing else.

The raincoats were rubberized, guaranteeing we would be sweating profusely after a short period of time from the heat of the California sun. We would then be marched over to the medics building, lined up and, with our raincoats opened, our genitals inspected by a medic sitting on a chair in front of us.

He would look for social diseases, crabs, or something worse. It was known as short arm inspection. According to army regulations, once a month we were to be read the Articles of War, the Army's criminal code governing our actions while in service.

We referred to them as the commandments, only these rules left no room for contrition, only punishment. Any infringement of these laws could lead to a court-martial with the resulting penalties.

For example, they stated we could not be absent without authorized leave AWOL , desert, fail to obey an order, be drunk on duty, show disrespect for a commissioned officer, disobey a noncommissioned officer and so on.

We always got a kick out of the last Article. It stated, in effect, if your conduct was of a nature to bring disrespect upon the Army, you could be subject to a court-martial.

This meant anything you did not to the Army's liking could be included in their list of crimes. It was a catchall if I ever heard one, and I wondered why they bothered to be so specific about some infringements when this one covered them all.

Those in charge of our training would throw out the threat of court-martial on a regular basis. It was presented in such a forceful manner the mere thought sent fear through us.

There could be the court-martial itself, maybe a dishonorable discharge, and even time in jail. While much of their blustering was little more than threats, we did not know that at the time, and if we did, we did not want to take the chance of being made an example.

If they treated any minor infringement with major punishments, surely they would follow through with the threats associated with more serious items outlined in the Articles of War.

Most soldiers like me lived under the threat of court-martial and we went to great pains to avoid one. There were many hikes that took us out of camp.

The army called them forced marches. We wondered why they used the word forced to describe these activities.

Everything we did was forced on us, so why limit it to marches? We carried a full field pack on a few of them, but on most we just wore our fatigues with gun belts, helmet liners, and gas masks and carried our rifles.

Some hikes were as short as five miles; others were as long as twenty-five miles. On the longer hikes, we would get a ten-minute break every hour to sit down on the ground and rest.

The sergeant in charge would shout out, "Take a ten-minute break, smoke if you've got em. After the ten minutes were up, the sergeant would yell out, "Okay, men, on you feet, stow those butts, and move it out," and we would be off again as men field stripped their cigarettes.

The longer hikes really tested our endurance. Just like they did at the obstacle course, they would pit one battery against another, platoon against platoon, and even gun section against gun section.

It was a contest who would finish first, who would finish in the least amount of time, and who would have the most men finish the longer hikes.

Like the contests at the obstacle course, winning was a lot more important to the officers and noncoms than it was to the rest of us.

The younger men would usually take over carrying the rifles of the older ones in order to lighten their load in hopes they could stay the course and finish the hike.

A Jeep or a weapons carrier followed the hikers and picked up stragglers who could not finish.

The sergeants tried to make those who fell out feel as guilty as possible for letting down their unit. Sometimes, while marching around on the streets in the camp, we would come across Italian prisoners of war doing labor work.

They had been captured by the American Army in the battle for North Africa and incarcerated in an area located in the far corner of Camp Haan.

The men of Italian descent in our outfit would greet the prisoners with the well-known stiff-arm salute: They grabbed the inside of their right forearm with the left hand and then propelled both arms up in the air.

It was always followed with some kind of an oath in Italian only they understood. Even though the rest of us did not know the meaning of what was said, just listening to the emphasis put on certain words and watching the body language produced a lot of laughs from our ranks while the prisoners just smiled without a response.

We bivouacked in open fields outside Camp Haan for several days. There we were introduced to pup tent living See Fig. The first night out it rained, which was rare for southern California, and we soon learned how to dig small drainage ditches around the tent to avoid getting flooded out.

At first we found it all quite exciting, but later we would learn to dislike it because of their cramped quarters..

Our meals were delivered by truck and we ate out of mess kits for the first time. Back at Camp Haan, we grumbled among ourselves about the rigorous training, never realizing that it was going to get much worse.

Our complaining was somewhat tempered by the fact that there were branches of the Army which were a lot harder and potentially more dangerous than an anti-aircraft outfit.

Nobody expected military life to be fun, and, realistically, it was just what we anticipated it to be: hard, miserable, and demeaning.

There was little talk about when the war is over because the way military operations were going overseas, we knew that the end was a long way down the road.

On a regular basis, we were taken over to the camp's infirmary and given tetanus, typhoid, and smallpox shots. While standing in line to be shot, there were always men who would exaggerate about what was going to happen.

There were always a few men who would faint from the shots and we all had some discomfort from them. One shot produced immediate pain, but it went away after several hours.

The next day, the effects of another shot kicked in and caused some discomfort that lasted for about twenty-four more hours.

After repeating the procedure several times, we began to take it all in stride. Every Saturday morning at hours we had an inspection of quarters by an officer.

To get ready, we would start the evening before, scrubbing and readying our hut and everything in it for the big moment.

Our bunks were made up in a prescribed method with square corners and OD blankets pulled tight. We put on our newest uniform that was well cleaned and pressed.

Our shoes were given a heavy coat of polish, brushed, and buffed to a high gloss shine with a soft cloth. As the officer approached the screen door, a cadre member would shout out, "Attention!

We would all stiffen into a rigid position of attention next to our cots as the officer and sergeant entered; there we would remain the entire time they were in our hut.

The officer would always find something wrong, and made a big fuss about it. The sergeant would make notes of every shortcoming; extra duties were passed out as penalties in some cases.

No matter how we tried, it was nearly impossible to meet the standards required of us. We soon learned to do our best and then care less about being perfect.

While they threatened severe consequences, such as eliminating passes for a weekend, that was usually a bluff unless there was some flagrant goof-up.

We kidded among ourselves that perhaps they would send us back to civilian life for being inept, but we knew that was not likely.

After all the huts were inspected, we lined up on the street, standing at rigid attention and in formation, where our dress uniforms and M-1 rifles went through further inspection.

The night before, the rifles had been cleaned meticulously, the metal parts lightly oiled, and the walnut stock polished with linseed oil.

The officer would come down the line of men, all with the butts of their rifles on the ground tight against their bodies.

As the officer stopped in front of him, each man would bring the rifle up to port arms and then open the bolt, all in a rigid military movement. The officer would bring his hand up from his side, like a boxer throwing an uppercut, and grab the rifle out of the man's hands.

If you didn't let go of it in time you were in big trouble. The officer would inspect the rifle, even looking down the barrel.

This rifle is filthy. How long have you been in the Army, soldier? Sergeant, take this man's name. Next time, I want to see this rifle sparkle.

The questions and comments by the officer varied from man to man, but they all had one theme-we were not up to his expectations. Following inspection on Saturday, all the troops would go out on the parade ground and pass in review before the high command of the camp while a band played stirring military music.

It may sound corny today, but at the time, it was a big thrill to be a part of this and I, for one, looked forward to it. It somehow made me proud to be a soldier.

Because I am tall, I was made the guidon carrier for our battery. The guidon is a small flag designating which unit you are in.

It was attached to the top of a ten-foot-long wooden pole. I marched ahead and to the right side of the formation by myself. Because of the large number of men in the battery and the band playing, not everyone could hear the commands from the officer leading our unit.

The men would watch the guidon and react to the signals I would send them. For example, as we passed the reviewing stand, I dropped the pole, on command, from a vertical to a horizontal position.

That indicated everyone except the left column of men should look to the right, toward the stand. When the flag went back up, we all looked straight ahead.

The reviewing stand was a rickety-looking structure made of the same materials that everything else in camp was made of: plywood and two-by-fours.

It looked like it was made by men who volunteered as carpenters even though they had never held a hammer before they entered service. Half a dozen or so high ranking officers were standing on it doing their best at looking important.

We were told the reviewing committee rated us on the quality of our marching, the straightness of our lines, and the military snap of our movements.

We assumed our battalion never won because nobody in authority ever brought the subject up after the parade was over. Because we were not interested in the results, we never bothered to ask how we did.

As the training continued, many things became easier to take. We began to move the thoughts of civilian life out of our minds and accept army life as the norm.

The strenuous life we were leading and the authoritarian administration of our activities by the likes of Sergeant Monteleone and the cadre members were taken as a matter of course.

Thoughts of family and civilian friends became less frequent until they became something rare. When we thought about the future, it was about what the Army had in store for us tomorrow, not wondering when we were going home.

With all of the physical exercises we were doing, our bodies were made hard and we were all in much better shape than when we first arrived at Camp Haan.

We looked at the end of each day with great expectation, glad to have some time to ourselves. Sometimes it was relief from physical exertion; sometimes from boredom created by the repetition of dull routine.

Supper at hours was always enjoyable because it usually signaled the end of the working day. After supper, we would stand around the orderly room and the battery clerk would pass out the mail.

We were always glad to hear from a friend or relative. Those who had left a wife or steady girlfriend behind were especially anxious to get letters from them.

There were a few men who seemed to get much more mail than anyone else, and they took a lot of kidding about it. Then there were others who got packages frequently.

We always hoped that the recipient of the package was in our hut because we expected him to share his gift with us. Most packages contained cookies or homemade candy.

Some of the goodies were so stale they were hard to eat, but we did anyway. During free evenings, there wasn't much to do in camp.

The movie theater showed only one feature, which changed once a week. While we were constantly standing in lines for everything we did, the lines for getting into the theater were the longest.

It took a lot of fun out of it but we soon learned to get there at the off-peak hour. There was a lot of talk among my fellow GIs about why Sinatra was not in the service but of much more interest to me were the two girls who played the leads.

I dreamed about them for months after. The PX got a lot of play. It was a combination of a drug store, ice cream parlor, and tavern.

It was always the most crowded during the week or so after payday and only those who arrived early were able to get seats. On the days just before payday, there were all kinds of seats available.

One section of the PX sold toilet articles, candy, stationery, and items like that. Another area was set up as an ice cream parlor, and the third section sold beer no wine or hard liquor.

There was no sign of Schlitz or Budweiser, the popular civilian beers of the time. The PX beer was called , that meant it had 3.

This was somewhat less than the amount in beer sold in civilian bars. Despite the low alcohol content, most soldiers who spent the evening in the beer area-including me at times-started off talking among ourselves in normal voices and wound up in more boisterous.

In the early hours we would discuss the days activities and damn the officers and high-ranking noncoms. As the night progressed, the noise became louder and you had to shout to be understood.

The smoke in the room got progressively thicker, the conversations more bawdy, and the laughs earsplitting. Near the end of the evening, we would have our arms around each other singing songs at the top of our voices.

Roll out the Barrel and Bless 'em All were two favorites. Going back to our barracks we would be acting drunk, complete with staggering steps.

I say acting, because most of us were in our late teens, and drinking was relatively new to us. We usually drank about four or five beers in an evening, and would act like we had just polished off a fifth of gin.

No one could possibly get that drunk on the equivalent of two or three bottles of regular beer. It was all part of our growing up. We were all trying to shed the image of raw recruits-young boys and untrained civilians.

Every effort was made to act more like seasoned soldiers. Drinking beer and getting drunk at the PX was how some of the men showed how tough they were getting.

Others were just drowning their sorrows while still others, like me, tried the heavy drinking a few times, got sick from it, and settled down to having a few bottles of the beer with my buddies as a social thing.

About every two weeks, I would get KP duty. While it was hard work, it was a change in pace and I looked forward to it even with the threat of cleaning the grease-traps hanging over me.

I got to eat better than normal. If there were a good dessert that day, I would have second or third helpings. It didn't take much to make me happy in those days.

Another assignment delegated on a regular basis was guard duty. It would usually last for twenty-four hours. I would be assigned to a special barracks known as the guardhouse.

There we were inspected and instructed in our assignment by a duty officer. The Army camp became incredibly large and at one time housed 80, soldiers.

As a training camp, it was one of the most basic and yet expansive. However, the entire base always felt temporary. Robert F. The base was large and spanned across approximately 8, acres.

However, it seemed almost impolite to build the base across from March Air Field for soldiers who had hoped to become pilots in the war. The camp was bare of any bushes or trees according to Gallagher, but it was superbly clean for a military base.

While Camp Haan may have started out as a collection of tents, it eventually had wooden buildings in addition to the 2, floor tents, hospital, chapels, exchanges, sewers, mess halls and streets.

The camp was home to the boys who would be the first line of defense if attacks on Pearl Harbor had moved to California.

The living quarters and buildings of Camp Haan were rudimentary according to Gallagher. They were made from plywood and typically were by feet.

They had no insulation, finishing or paint. While the upper part of the buildings often had a screen and awnings, rain storms were particularly dreadful as the only means to protect the barracks was with a plywood sheet.

Most of the barracks contained a wooden floor, potbelly stove and canvas cots with 3-inch thick mattresses. There were six men to each wooden hut. In such small spaces, duffel bags became bureaus.

There were no luxuries in Camp Haan. The main weapons for the soldiers were 40mm guns that fired two rounds per second with automatic but could also be set to fire solitary shots.

Most soldiers spent hours learning how to operate and maintain their guns. Soldiers also learned how to operate 90mm and mm guns.

As the war progressed, the base became less useful as a training center. Space was needed prisoners were taken from the battlefield.

The base closed and reopened as a prisoner of war camp in housing Italian and eventually German POWs. The prisoners worked at Camp Haan and also in the citrus orchards located outside of the camp.

A hospital with beds was also built to handle the wounded that came in from the Pacific operations, and the Southwest Branch was opened as a U.

Disciplinary Barracks at Camp Haan later that year. After the war ended, there seemed to be little use for the camp as a training center or POW camp.

It was transformed into a separation center, which were used to house soldiers before they were discharged from the Army.

Camp Haan would eventually close on August 31, Once the base officially closed, the buildings were sold, the land was divided and sold off as parcels.

Now much of the land is comprised of the General Olds Golf Course. Small parts of the land continue to be unused, which can be seen from State Route He was an assistant to the commanding general of the training command at Camp Haan and quickly rose from private to warrant officer during World War II.

He knew much about the base and recalled that one of the biggest problems was the waste of food at the camp.

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