We get the names we're given in life, rejecting some, embracing few. And the Army gives new ones each day as readily as it's currently passing out disabilities. And in a similar though far less dramatic way, a name changes a person's view of the world, sometimes for good, sometimes for not so good.
Like my parents did when I was born, the Army gave me a name. I had no choice but to accept it until I had the rank or anonymity to change it. Fortunately, it didn't suck.
Soldiers ("Joe's") like shortcuts above all else, excepting beer, women, and time off. Each day revived mantras celebrated like hymns: "if you're not cheating, you're not trying," "if you get caught, you're not trying hard enough," and "if you look busy, you are busy." The goal was to accomplish more while doing less. If less was accomplished, well, that was ok too.
It applied equally to names; a name disappeared quickly in favor of something shorter or more appropriate. It was part convenience: fewer syllables required less effort, resulting in verbal economy. But it sometimes left a mark like Hawthorne's scarlet "A" marked Hester Prynne.
Most often, the nickname was derivative of the surname. Two weeks into Fort Bragg, my name officially and forevermore became Dave—far less cumbersome than Davidson. Even as a sergeant, I was Sgt. Dave.
Some got off easy like that, names not morphing much or at all. Todd Gravely was always Gravely (although occasionally mispronounced like the adverb); Casey and Stone were never anything but. Bernholtz became Bernie, Burgmeyer – Burgie, Williams–Will, etc.
Mickey Paolucci became whatever that combination of vowels and consonants allowed–Pappy Loochie, Pappy, Pooch, etc (though it seems like a significant change, remember that many infantrymen had a tough time pronouncing words like pasghetti or Massatoosis.). He might even have been the original Papa Roach.
Derek Battle and Sgt. Slaughter had names built for an airborne infantry unit. One Sergeant's last name eludes me because his first made him Stormin' Norman long before the media passed it off to a general. John Friezen became the Freeze. Matt Farrell became Traveling Matt of "Fraggle Rock" fame.
With a high percentage of southerners, some people became an abomination of themselves. Anthony Powell became Powl (rhymes with fowl); Bradley B. Binkley (I am not making that up) got Binky or Blinky depending on mispronouncer preference. We kept those.
Others kept their names, but with new meaning. James Keck was neither reliable nor competent. When people addressed him, it sounded like something was caught in their throats. Steve Gurly, "girly," had to deal with the name his parents passed down.
Nicknames also came from traits. Ralph Roman loved comics and video games. When the movie and game based on the comic "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" came out, Roman's resemblance to the venerable rat Splinter won that as nickname until someone dubbed him Ratman. The latter stuck like a high school reputation.
Sean Stewart resembled a shrew. His mannerisms, dwarf-like appearance, and facial expressions earned him Shrewert. And Sgt. Foster, the company's chemical expert spoke with such a lisp that behind his back he was Tharenfothter—you have to say both aloud to appreciate them.
Because the Army is above all a hierarchal order, names we used varied with situations. My friend John Friezen was a Sgt., so I called him by rank and name on duty and whenever there were sergeants or officers present. Among the enlisted men, references were usually along the lines of "The Freeze is looking for you."
As enlisted men, we also had endless fun with officers. My first company commander was more motivated to kill than anyone I met before or since. Among the enlisted and lower ranking sergeants, he was known as Captain Combat.
His replacement, Capt. Ramsdale, seemed more concerned with appearance during combat drills than with Joe's proper execution of the drills. Because of this, he became Captain Kevlar, named for the helmet we wore.
Next to lead us was Capt. Martin P. Schweitzer, Marty P. (also occasionally Herr Scvitzer), and since the senior Sgt. in our company was Martin B. Matney, they became collectively "Marty B and Marty P."
Second in command was the XO (executive officer), Lieutenant Stephen Donaldson. Donaldson's name was the first step in him becoming Lt. Sam. The second was the way he talked to people; sometimes you believed that he thought he was addressing an entire nation on the five o'clock news. His best friend and roommate was first platoon's leader, Lt. Dan Cotell. Cotell somehow avoided a nickname. Collectively, they were Sam-and-Dan, pronounced samandan.
Third platoon's Lt. Guthrie didn't like me, mostly because I created his nickname. He was transferred to our unit late one night while we were training in the woods. Because he hadn't eaten since the previous day or slept in over 24 hours, Marty B moved him to the front of the chow line, right in front of me.
"Good morning, sir," I said. He responded in kind.
And then I saw his name. "Sir, I don't suppose you're related to Arlo, are you?"
"It's a distant relation," he said. I didn't note the distaste in his voice, took it for exhaustion.
"Sir," I said, oblivious to the fact that I was digging my own grave, "will you sing a verse of 'Alice's Restaurant' for me?"
Oops.
We had about a week left in the woods; the only shitty job I didn't do during that time was sleep. His opinion of me never recovered. But from that moment forward, he was Arlo.
Names were mutable. A Joe could spend years with the best nomenclature in the Army, and do one stupid thing Sunday Morning in the chow line in front of two people and be changed forever.
There was one kid who couldn't help fucking up. It didn't take long before everybody but the officers in the company called him Soup, from the phrase "more fucked up than a soup sandwich."
I wonder what would've happened if he had gotten to keep his real name. Would it have made a difference in his assimilation into military life? As it was, the obvious lack of support that "Soup" suggests played into his rapid departure.
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