Thinking about the infantrymen ... every day

By Carl Heintze

There's an Internet site devoted solely to infantrymen.

I don't suppose I should be surprised at that. There are websites devoted to almost anything. In the old days of the Internet, they used to be called newsgroups. They are places where people with like interests can exchange information, ideas and messages. They run the gamut of almost every human endeavor.

And there's no reason why infantrymen shouldn't have one.

Because infantry combat is one of the most intense experiences one can experience--life threatening most of the time--most old infantrymen, including myself, tend to remember every detail of that time, now fortunately long ago.

And there's something about being an infantryman that makes it unique, that creates a kind of fraternity. First, you carry anything you're going to need in the performance of your duties with you, most of it on your back or around your waist.

Secondly, although you're an individual and you can walk and talk like a human being, you can't really move about freely. You're really at the mercy of others--your squad, platoon or company leader. They tell you where to stand, march, lie down, run or stand still.

You don't get to argue about this. Infantry combat is the business of moving groups of men around, or, as the Dictionary of Occupational Titles (published by the army) puts it, being in the infantry means "to close with the enemy, kill or capture him and occupy his ground." (I suppose I amend this to say "his or her ground," as women are getting closer and closer to ground combat.)

Most of the business of the infantry and infantrymen is just that--moving from one place to another to stand or lie on a certain strategic section of the earth.

There often doesn't seem any apparent reason for where you're sent, how long you are there or the fact that you're not doing anything while you are there. Presumably someone higher up the chain of command has a reason for you doing what you're doing--although you can't always count on that.

In the fog of war often nothing makes sense--not to you, not to the enemy, not to anyone.

All these things make being an infantryman tough. You're out in all weather; you are constantly afraid of getting wounded at the least and killed at the most; you don't have a clue as to what you're doing; and you can't do much on your own to better your lot.

I was thinking of all these things because of the members of the 10th Mountain Division and the 101st Airborne who have been trudging around the Afghan mountains in the snow at 8,000 to 10,000 feet looking for various Taliban and Al Queda infantrymen who are trying to kill them (and vice versa).

The weather is miserable, the troops are carrying large packs and moving slowly because of the altitude, and they are meeting more resistance than they anticipated.

I know how they feel. I spent most of the winter of 1944-'45 trudging through the snow along the Belgian-German border while the enemy fired artillery and mortar shells at me and my fellows and occasionally shot their machine pistols and rifles in our direction.

We slept out in all weather, were wet, cold, frightened and pretty much unaware of why we were where we were. Most of us were replacements. We had been shipped overseas as unattached individuals, destined to be inserted into the ranks of companies decimated by the fall fighting at the end of the war.

Most of us were ill trained. Some of us were physically handicapped. (I remember one deaf soldier who somehow had made it to the front in spite of being unable to hear incoming shells, and a second who arrived without a trigger finger.)

Most of us had gotten into the Army to do something else and had been transferred into the infantry when casualties were far larger than the campaign's commanders had anticipated.

Still, we learned. If we didn't, we were wounded or killed. And we weren't unique. The enemy side had rounded up the same set of misfits--men and boys with bad stomachs, the old and the young who were sent into the final battles of the war because there wasn't anybody else to send.

I'm sure that's not the case in Afghanistan. The American infantry there are all volunteers. They've spent months training, and they are magnificently equipped and supported. They know why they are where they are and what they're supposed to do.

But it's still the infantry; and it is still infantry combat--single men moving about in the cold and the high altitude, being shot at and shooting back, trying to dislodge the enemy from the high ground, still dealing with fear and trembling.

As an old infantryman, my heart goes out to them. As an old infantryman, I know how they feel. I don't wish to take anyone's place. One war in one lifetime is enough.

And I hope others do, too.

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Carl Heintze is a frequent contributor to the Willow Glen Resident. He can be reached at feodorh@juno.com.

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