At that time, I was 23 years old, overweight, definitely under-exercised, and from the northern region of the country, which was significantly cooler than Texas in June. To me, the Texas heat was unbearable. I have mentioned previously that my brain and my limbs do not coordinate easily. The previous experience referred to typing, but I have never been an effective dancer or game player involving certain rhythmic reactions of feet or hands.

As an indication of the heat and the salt effect, it was noted that each evening, when we took off our fatigue shirts, the backs were white with salt, and they were stiff enough to stand-alone.

We would periodically get short passes to leave camp. My standard practice was to find the closest watermelon stand, where I would purchase a quarter watermelon and eat it on the spot. Once or twice, we went into Mineral Wells, where we generally had only a "walk-around".

It essentially never rained at Camp Wolters during the summer of 1944. Each morning at dawn, I would look for clouds on the horizon. If I saw one, I would pray that the cloud would become bigger to give us some shade. It never did. However, one day toward the end of summer, it did rain. It came down in buckets, and we were wading waste-deep in water that had once been a dry field.

Food at the camp was excellent. When we were able to return each day to the barracks area, we ate at camp. There was a large dining hall with long tables and benches similar to the summer camps that young people now attend. Service was family style with bowls on the table. While the GIs were reasonably polite, we had to watch the "chow-hounds".

Field rations were similarly good. However, the action of eating in the field has had a psychological effect on my subsequent life. People generally appear to enjoy picnics, but that is not now something I appreciate. My short stint in infantry basic, where every day was a "picnic", gave me enough of that activity. When we do go on picnics, I usually stand and eat. When asked why I don't sit down, I usually respond that it’s easier to run from a standing position.

In the course of time, the training program began to take its effect. Within a few weeks, I was able to undergo close-order drill at 4 or 5:00 p.m. without serious difficulty. I proved myself capable on the firing range, achieving a marksmanship rating, and winning a carton of cigarettes. After a month or six weeks, I was able to take long hikes, not only carrying my own rifle but also picking up the rifles of stragglers, who were unable to make it. However, the most surprising thing to me was my change in attitude toward war and killing. Without any ability to demonstrate or prove it, I was convinced that I had achieved a state of toughness where I could shoot people without hesitation.

There was a top Sgt., who was approximately 60 years old. He was probably the equivalent of the Drill Sgt.'s that we hear about in the modern military. For some reason or other, I developed a strong dislike for this man. I pictured that if he ever got into a wrong position on the firing range, he was a dead man.

One thing I never lost sight of was my desire to get out of this operation. The Company Commander had several times given us addresses during which he indicated there was no way we could change the course of events with respect to our service in the infantry. We were destined to complete our training of 17 weeks and then head for battle.