His buddy behind him asked him, “What outfit did he say?” “K/3/5, whatever the hell that means.” The effect on us was instant and dramatic. Men who had paid little attention to what seemed a routine inquiry looked angrily up at the man. I flushed with anger. My unit and I had been insulted. The mortarman next to me threw down his ammo bag and started up the embankment. “I’ll show you what the hell it means, you rear-echelon sonofabitch! I’m gonna whip your ass.”
