My hat goes off to all entitled to wear the Infantry Rifleman's badge; they deserve all the credit we can give them.

We need to be reminded that our freedom is not free at all. It cost us all, those at home and those on foreign soil. Those who had to say goodbye to us in the armed forces, were working and waiting for us to win and come home.

I was the youngest of nine children, seven sons and two daughters. Two brothers went to the South Pacific, leaving the rest of us in various defense work to keep the war effort going. I drove an off-road-22-yard dump truck until I received my letter from the President in April, 1943.

I was inducted at Camp Arlington, California, got a haircut and some olive drab clothes and too many shots and tests. They tried to discipline us but they soon gave up in despair.

After Arlington finally decided where to send us, our destination turned out to be Camp White at Medford, Oregon. I was temporarily attached to the 91st Division, then to the new 70th Infantry. It had to have a Headquarters and a Quartermasters to even get started, you know.

My uneducated guess is that there were possibly 30 to 50 of us from the Southern California area. Truck drivers, of course, cooks, bakers, mechanics, warehousemen and those on a lower I.Q. level to run the Division HA. At least this was the keen perspective of this 18-year-old would-be truck driver and screwdriver mechanic. He found himself along with the bunch of future Trailblazers headed for Oregon on an enjoyable steam train ride to Dunsmuir, California, where Greyhound had some stage coaches waiting for us.

While these stages were not Wells Fargo's - at least I do not recall any horses in front - they were old, big, fat, conventional models from the late 20s and early 30s, some Fagoels and the rest GMC.

Our top kicks were some of the best. Our commanding officers were Col. Donald E. Bowles, Capt. Adams and First Sergeant E.G. Spicer. We were quickly organized into platoons. All the tallest and the best men were assigned to the fast platoon under Lt.

Roof, a great guy, and Tec/Sgt. George Wisdom, another top soldier. I'm just prejudiced cause that is where they put me and I liked it so well I was a part of the First Platoon until I was sent home in April, 1946.

Ah, basic training! Lots of drilling, calisthenics, rifle and truck maintenance training and gathering new trucks and equipment out of Salem, Vancouver and Yakima. We had a great time, it was fun.

I guess they were extremely hard pressed for leaders. For one day when I was getting off KP duty someone asked me if I had looked at the bulletin board. I wasn't anxious for more KP but I went to check anyway. They had my name up as the new fast platoon sergeant. They probably got the names mixed up. Anyway this 18-year old punk kid took over. I couldn't even spell platoon or sergeant, and still can't!

It wasn't long until we loaded our trucks for Camp Adair. Once moved in, we went through basic infantry training (believe it or not) and at the same time learning our Quartermaster supply duties night and day. There were a lot of marches past Coffin Butte to the rifle ranges. We were tops, you guys should have seen us truck drivers crawling in the mud!

That summer and fall of 1943 we moved all you fellows over the grand roads of the Santiam Pass and scattered you from Bend, where I now live, clear to Burns, Christmas Valley and Wagontire, Oregon.

You guys were eating dust most of the time, but you also consumed a lot of good food we hauled out and distributed to you. Yeah! I know you had to eat some K- and C-rations, too. Even today among the juniper

trees on our 40 acres I will occasionally pick up a C-ration can which brings back many memories of nearly 50 years ago.

The highlight of all my experiences at Adair was meeting my Swedish bride-to-be in Silverton on a weekend pass with another truck driver, Donald L. Hunt, from Rifle, Washington. We were married on May 14, 1944, and our 47th anniversary is coming up soon. All of our four children were born after the war and we now have a dozen grandchildren. Our son Dave has been driving some Clifford Schrock's potato-chips trucks in the Willamette Valley. Many of the QM Company members know Cliff; he was, no doubt, the only genuine truck driver in the bunch.

Most of the originals from Camp White were eventually transferred into the Infantry. We non-coms stayed QMs and went through two or three basics, training recruits. But I did not mind, I had my folks ship my 1936-80 Harley Davidson to Adair so I would have faster transportation to and from Silverton.

It wasn't long until my wife and I had to say goodbye. The company boarded another steam train out of Camp Adair and headed for Fort Leonard Wood where we trained some more recruits for truck drivers in the Ozark mountains. Soon we started packing all our gear to ship overseas. January, 1945 found us on the S.S. Mariposa in the Southern Atlantic trying to outrun German submarines and land at Marseilles, France. After some excitement at CP-2, Marseilles, we were equipping to move north.

Moving by night with all our trucks, we arrived into an old German garrison at Morange which was the base for our QM operations. We went right to work moving troops as directed, trying to keep you guys supplied with food, gas, ammunition and everything needed, going up to the lines, usually at night to haul off the wounded and POWs. Some of us truck drivers know what it is like to be shot at and have felt the concussion of 88s and mines. We were up there and saw you doing your job and have put our lives in jeopardy. We certainly cannot say we were in the middle of the fighting, but we were there at Wingen, Stiring-Wendel and Forbach. We hauled some of you over the pontoon bridge into Saarbrucken and even made a motorized patrol about 25 miles into Germany to contact the retreating Germans.