On Saturday nights there were dances that were called “cotillions.” They were held in a large gymnasium at Washington and Lee University, whose campus was connected to VMI’s campus. And there were girls at the cotillions. Beautiful Southern belles! Unfortunately, there was no getting close to them while dancing, because they all wore large hoop skirts so whether you wanted to or not, you had to keep your distance.
All in all, my semester at VMI before the Army was a wonderful transition between leaving home and being out in the real world. I loved it, and the gracious Virginians couldn’t have been nicer to the brash kid from Brooklyn.
When I turned eighteen, I was officially in the Army. They sent me to Fort Dix in New Jersey, which was an induction center. For some reason, even though I had spent a semester studying electrical engineering at VMI, the Army in its great wisdom decided that I should be in the field artillery. They shipped me out to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, which was the Field Artillery Replacement Training Center. When reduced to its initials, it spells FARTC.
（Which somehow lingered in my unconscious and later made its way into a comedy scene in my film Blazing Saddles. Waste not, want not.）
Fort Sill is in the southwest corner of Oklahoma. It’s cold, it’s flat, and it’s windy. If you ever have a chance, don’t go there. If you’re not in the field artillery, I don’t know why you would go there. It’s not an ideal spot for a fun weekend. It was a very long train ride to get there. We arrived around two in the morning and they fed us because we really hadn’t eaten in close to twenty-four hours and we were starving. I remember the mashed potatoes were terrible. They were gray, watery, woody, and splintery.
I said, “These are the worst mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten in my life!”
My friend Sonny turned to me and said, “That’s because they’re not mashed potatoes. They’re called turnips. We’re eating mashed turnips.”
I said, “Oh. Thank god!” Because I’d been about to give up mashed potatoes for the rest of my life, but after experiencing them I could very easily give up mashed turnips for the rest of my life. And to this day I don’t think I’ve ever knowingly eaten a turnip—mashed or not—ever again.
Having gone to VMI, basic training at Fort Sill wasn’t that difficult. I had already learned how to do close-order drills, and basic training was more of the same, perhaps with more intensity. It’s lots of drilling. You learn how to carry a rifle, how to drill with a rifle, and how to shoot a rifle. The rifles we trained with were not the M1 Garand that was actually used in combat, but an earlier model called the Springfield. It was a single bolt-action rifle that had quite a kick when fired. A tip from one of the sergeants on the rifle range saved my shoulder from being bruised from that kick. He told me to fold a towel over my shoulder before shooting and it worked. By the way, I was very good at the shooting part and it earned me my first little badge as an expert marksman.
We’d go on long marches with only ten-minute breaks. Five-, ten-, and occasionally sometimes even long exhausting twenty-mile hikes. That was tough. Then there’d be the infiltration course. It was like graduation, where they tested your skills and used live ammunition while you kept your head down and crawled on your elbows and your knees. That was scary.
The good part was that I was trained as a radio operator. That was going to be my job when I went overseas with a field artillery unit. I was so happy to be picked for a job that was not right next to the cannons, because they made a loud bang. However, for the first two weeks we had to be given some basic instructions on how to be part of a field artillery cannon crew. So for two weeks I was going to have to endure the incredibly loud explosions that the 105-and 155-millimeter Howitzers made. But I was lucky: One of the noncoms （non-commissioned officers） teaching us how to load, elevate, and fire the cannons gave me a great piece of advice.
He said, “Listen, buddy, the earplugs they give you really don’t work. What ya gotta do is break a cigarette in half, roll the ends tight, and shove them in your ears. That’s your best protection from the sound.”
And he was right! I got through those two weeks without breaking an eardrum.
* * *
—
Funny little anecdote: When I was getting my insurance physical for my first film, The Producers, the nurse who was looking into my ears said, “Mr. Brooks, I’ve seen a lot of inner ears in my life, but I’ve never seen any so yellow! Did you have jaundice or some disease or anything when you were a kid?”