THE COMBAT LIFE AND TIMES OF
THE SQUAWKIN' CHICKEN SKIPPER
(or “How The Whole Thing Started”)

I was born in a tarpaper shack, on a hard scrabble, poor dirt farm in the middle of the United States.  Iowa to be exact, in the south central part, not far from the Skunk River.  The Doctor arrived about 4 AM, having been summoned by my grandfather.  He had arrived in a Midwest thunder, lightening, and rain storm.  The rain had slashed at his old horse and buggy, and the top had not kept him from getting wet.  He had taken a few nips of moonshine whiskey (called, "Coal Miner's Fren") to help him keep warm and was staggering a bit when he arrived.  My dad put the Doctor's horse into the dry barn, and while they boiled water they drank coffee laced with some "Coal Miner's Fren."  In the one bedroom attached to the shack my 18-year-old mother suffered her final labor pains.  The thunder boomed; the lightening streaked the black sky; rain slammed against the windows; and the howling wind shook the old shack.  In the kitchen the coal oil lamp gave off a soft light, the old wood-burning stove kept the coffee hot, and started the dish pan of water to steaming.  My dad, the Doctor (who I will not name out of respect for his kin), and my grandpa slowly got drunk on the coffee and old "Coal Miner's Fren."

At about 5:30 AM on the rain and wind pounded morning of September 23, 1919, Edith Bennett (Nee Ansley) gave birth to an 8 pound, 21 inch baby boy.  She wanted him named Dewayne Bennett (Dewayne from a romantic novel she had read), but the Doctor on his shaking legs and in his quivering hand had written on the birth certificate Daine Bennett.  This was to cause me considerable trouble upon entering the service.  Afterwards, cleaned up, wrapped up in a baby blanket; laying in my mother's arms I dozed half asleep half awake, very happy to be here. 

At about 6 AM the old rooster and his hens started waking up.  The rooster, Old Watch, strutted out of the hen house and hopped up on a fence post.  Facing the sun, he closed his eyes and let out a rip roaring "Cock-a-doodle-dooo," and again "Cock-a-doodle-dooo!"  In the quiet of the country morning, the sound reverberated across the yard and penetrated the bedroom of the little shack.  My mother slept through the "Cock-a-doodle-dooo" cry, but they say the little baby (me) instantly came alert, his eyes crossed, and his tongue hung out as he tried to imitate, or answer the call of the "Great Rooster."  It was to affect my whole life.  I would never be the same, and many years later a famous psychiatrist was to explain that I had been infected with what is called "THE CHICKEN SYNDROME."  It was from hearing the call of "The Great Rooster" both in the womb, and on that early morning of September 23, 1919. It all began that early morning with the warm sun rising over the rain soaked landscape.  To this day, when I see a chicken spread it's great wings I get the urge to fly again myself.

To be continued...