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Sergeant Rogers
In March 1942 the wind blew at Camp Barkeley, Texas. Not all the time, but most
of the time. For perhaps a week the wind would blow steadily out of the north day and
night, rattling the tents we slept in, bringing all the dust from Oklahoma, Kansas,
Nebraska, and both Dakotas, and depositing it between our teeth and on our pillows,
which by morning would be a light dun color except for a white spot in the middle where
a head had lain. Then the wind would stop, and there would be a deafening quiet for
several hours, before it started to blow from the south, bringing back all the same dust
with it.
Part of my job as Executive Officer of Battery C, 915th FA Bn, was to conduct
gun drill, designated in the field manuals as Service of the Piece, but familiarly called
Cannoneers Hop. This meant that I was expected to stand out in the gale for hours at a
time, shouting long strings of commands loudly enough to be heard by the crews of four
howitzers spaced about 25 feet apart.
My voice was never very strong, but I did my best and managed somehow, at the
expense of cracked hoarseness and a chronic sore throat. I eventually got over both after I
was kicked upstairs into a staff job, and Lt. John Klas took over as Battery Exec. John,
nicknamed "Bear Tracks" by the men, had a voice clearly audible to anyone within a
mile, and other battery execs some distance away would rest their own tonsils by telling
their cannoneers to follow Lt. Klas's commands.
Sergeant Neuman Rogers, the chief of section for the number 3 howitzer, had a
problem similar to mine. He too shouted into the wind to make the crew of his gun hear.
Some of his men were slow to learn, and he thought that if they failed to understand,
saying it louder and more fiercely would be more effective than making a clearer
explanation. And it seemed to work; at least his men were eager to jump to do whatever
they thought he wanted.
Sergeant Rogers was about twenty-five, with sandy red hair and face to match,
and his voice never got over that strained, hoarse sound it got in the spring winds of West
Texas. He called himself "the dumbest man in the battery," and although he wasn't quite,
he was a long way from being the smartest. So he made up for lack of intellect by sheer
energy and drive. I don't know if his men worked for him because they respected him,
feared him, or simply got worn down by his intensity. Or maybe he had charisma,
whatever that is. Anyhow, work they did, and he had a good section.
Once while I was still Btry Exec, the cannoneers were cleaning the howitzers
when I overheard (at his volume, how could I help it?) Sgt Rogers misinform his men
about the name of a part of the piece. The Army is very fussy about using exact
nomenclature, so I had to rectify his error.
In leadership training I had been taught never to correct a man in front of his own
subordinates, lest he lose face with them, so I called Rogers off to one side and told him
in as confidential a tone as the wind would permit, "Sergeant, the breechblock of a 105
howitzer is not an eccentric screw type. That's the kind on a French 75 gun. The 105 has
a horizontal sliding wedge breechblock. Can you say that?"
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