Word: monson
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Fifteen minutes later, dressed and shaved, Corporal Monson was bucking the strong head wind on his way to the Company mess. In half an hour he was back in the squad room, policing up around his bunk, making the bed, straightening out his steel wall locker. At 7:35 there was a whistle again. Out for inspection poured Company F of the gist Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron: a scanty 54 enlisted men out of an authorized strength...
Standing on the driver's seat of the lead tank, Monson stretched his long legs, then pulled down his goggles against the driving snow. All but his head and shoulders disappeared through the hatch and he gave her the gun. Followed by the others, his lead M-24 snarled and roared down the almost deserted post street, heading for the back area of the reservation...
...company was back at the tank part for two hours of what the cavalry armored men still call "stables." The tanks were carefully worked over, guns cleaned. Then there was a dull lecture on military courtesy, an hour of athletics before the evening meal. After dinner Monson and two buddies changed to Class A uniform (cotton shirt and Eisenhower jacket), went down to the orderly room to pick up passes...
...Your Way." They caught the bus for Junction City, four miles away. Monson doesn't care much for the Fort...
Fort Riley soldiers soon learn that it does no good to whistle at Junk Town girls-they can't be had. Monson and his friends have noticed the return of the old civilian belief that soldiers are bums who haven't got the brains to be anything else. No one seems to remember that they were drafted. Nice girls, who once thought it smart and patriotic to be seen with soldiers (preferably an officer), now just say: "On your way, dogface...