The kid from Wisconsin was like thousands of other U. S. teen-agers who had been snatched into the Army just as the war was ending. While the rest of the U. S. was scrambling for the delights of peace, he was still in uniform, sweating out the end of his hitch, forgotten by everyone but his own family. At Fort Riley, Kansas, TIME Correspondent James Bell spent a day with Corporal Gordon Monson, a big, pink-cheeked 19-year-old from tiny Hoimen, Wis. Correspondent Bell's report:
It was dark outside and a prairie wind was driving cold, dry snow when the Charge of Quarters walked into Monson's squad room and let go with a blast of his whistle. It was 6 a.m.
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 of 107.
Road Block. That day a tactical problem was scheduled. By 9:15 the five M-24 light tanks (all the company had personnel to maintain) were ready, purring smoothly in their dark, throaty way.
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.
On a hill overlooking the rolling prairie the five tanks assembled. The lieutenant, a veteran of the Americal Division on Guadalcanal, explained the problem: a flanking assault on a road block held by "Red forces." The company moved out. The maneuver went off fine except that, when it was all over, the road block still stood. It was hidden and the tanks had gone right past it.
Noon chow and a short session on the sack were over by 1 p.m. and the 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.
"On Your Way." They caught the bus for Junction City, four miles away. Monson doesn't care much for the Fort
Riley enlisted men's club. "The hostess tries her best," he explained, "but it's a pretty dull place." Aside from the movies, a couple of 3.2 beer parlors and a bowling alley, "Junk Town" isn't much better. The Army life is still a lonely life and the corner of Sixth and Washington at 10 p.m. is still a pretty lonely corner, as lonely as thousands of corners known by thousands of U.S. soldiers.