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What Is A Cavalryman? from May-June 1969 issue of "Armor Magazine"
Somewhere between the apple-cheeked innocence of the Combat Center and
the urbane worldliness of the Sydney R&R veteran, we find a delightful
creature known as a Cavalryman. Cavalrymen come in assorted shapes and
conditions, mostly "out of condition". You find them everywhere, but
mostly riding through "Indian Country" on tanks, ACAVs. LOHs and Cobras.
Local merchants love them; "Charlie" hates them; the 11th ACR staff
tolerates them; new platoon leaders frustrate them; infantrymen ignore
them; and the combat medics protect them.
A Cavalryman is confusion with profanity on his tongue ... experience
with three Purple Hearts on his chest ... imagination with a slice of C4
in his mouth ... and faith with a flak jacket on his back.
A Cavalryman has the appetite of an IBM computer, the energy of a
nuclear reactor, the curiosity of an old maid, the enthusiasm of a kid
in an ice cream plant, the lungs of an umpire, and the shyness of a bull
elephant in the mating season.
He likes women, beer, ice cream, Playboy magazine, letters from "the
World", Australia, steaks, "DEROS", hot showers, Hong Kong, and hot
chow. He isn't much for Monsoons, RPGs, AK-47s, spit and polish, broken
torsion bars, C-rations, roast beef, Kool-Aid, powdered eggs, "Charlie",
walking, or waiting in line.
No one else is so early in the chow line, or so often at the beer
cooler. When you want him he's somewhere in the AO. When you don't, he's
hovering over your desk with 117 reasons why he should be promoted or go
on a third R&R. No one else can cram into one fighting vehicle a double
basic load of ammo, 10 cases of C-rations, two rolls of barbed wire, 14
shaped charges, a portable TV, one chaise lounge, three beer coolers,
five cartons of cigarettes, an empty tool bag, two transistor radios,
three machineguns, a rice-polishing machine, and a pet monkey.
A cavalryman is a fabulous creature. You can keep him out in the field,
but you can't keep him out of the "village". You can frustrate his
desires, but you can't frustrate his drive. You can top his jokes, but
you can't top his combat record. He's your conscience, your shadow, your
second set of eyes, your psychiatrist, and your despair. But when the
chips are down and the bullets ricochet off your track, he's your pride
and joy, your fair-haired boy; a slashing, hard-charging bundle of nerve
and sheer guts.
When you return from three days of hard fighting, trudge wearily through
the mud to your hooch, and finally settle down with a hot cup of coffee,
he can bring tears to your eyes with those tender, sympathetic, and
understanding words, "Gee, I sure am sorry about your jeep, sir, but we
were just trying to beat the other tanks to the fuel point ......".
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