How to Change a Tire in the Army

Though I graduated from Radio School in  Ft. Gordon, GA,  I spent most of my time driving during my stint in the Army. I drove everything from jeeps, (which the Army called a quarter-ton truck,) to five-ton trucks. I was even "licensed" to work certain types of generators.

As a private and a driver, I was required to do some fairly heavy maintenance on my vehicles. I never pulled an engine or such, but I did have to change tires on occasion and I don't mean just taking off the lug-nuts and putting on a spare. I mean removing the tire from the rim and putting a new one on. This didn't happen very often, but, as I considered myself to be somewhat mechanically inclined, I didn't mind so much.

One fine day, I was just at the beginning of going through the process of replacing a tire. I, for whatever reason, had one lying on the floor and I was working my way toward separating the rim from the tire. Ere long, I noticed Captain What's-his-name standing over me, just watching the show. (I don't think any of us liked him and I've just completely forgotten his name.) I tried to ignore him and go about my business, but he soon began bragging to me how he had been a "motor pool officer" when he first got in the service and continued to go on and on about how he could do so much on a vehicle, etc. I politely acknowledged his banter.

Now, this is where it got really interesting. Before I knew it, he was down on the floor next to me struggling to finish remounting this tire. I was, frankly taken aback by his action.

Here's the deal. If I had thought he was trying to be helpful, I would've appreciated his hands-on leadership, but I'm convinced, even today, that he was less concerned about helping a private than showing what he was capable of doing.

And then, it got even weirder. Next thing I know, Lt. Dorch, (yes, I remember his name,) obviously, seeing his commander down on his hands and knees, couldn't feel comfortable just standing by and watching. Boom! He was soon right beside the CO, hands on the tire, wrestling to finish my nearly finished job.

As for me, there was little I could do and little room in which to do it. So, I did what any self-respecting, intelligent, wily private would do, I stood up, stepped back, crossed my arms and just enjoyed the show.

After a few minutes, no more than three or four I'm sure, it began to dawn on my Captain exactly what was going on in this little scenario. He looked up, saw me standing there smiling, stood up and said, "Finish up here, soldier."

"Yes, sir!" I said, smiling.

There really, as I recall, wasn't a whole lot left to do, but I finished it well, remounted the tire to my vehicle and chalked one up for the little people.

Supply Gofer

I had the best job in the Army. I was a "Supply Gofer." Now, for some few in the civilian world, those  whohaven't watched any war movies, a little explanation of that nom de guerre is in order.

Have you ever seen the t.v. show "Mash"? Remember "Radar" O'Reilley? He was the medical unit gofer. (At least, that was the impression they gave.) As the show progressed through its seasons, he was grew to be more of a personal secretary and clerk for the Colonel, though.

I was originally in the commo section, (communications,) HHQ Divarty, but had the good sense to get a military driver's license early on. Sadly, I didn't get along so well with my commo section chief. (In hind-sight, mostly my fault.) So, a good buddy of mine who was an "acting jack" E-5, got me a transfer to supply. They needed a gofer.

I knew the guys in supply, so felt right at home very quickly. Sgt. Thompson, my new section chief, was an amiable Puerto Rican who took a liking to me very quickly. He would often refer to me as "my private." Yes, I was, very soon, a PFC, but I never felt insulted. I felt he always meant it kindly.

Now, there are different types of "gofers" in the Army, but being "supply gofer" is the best by far. The ideal, obviously, is that you are the guy who, when they need someone to go for something, you are the one they send. Thus, go for, "gofer." It basically means you spend a lot of time behind the wheel of a vehicle or sitting in warehouses and offices waiting to pick up something or to drop something off.

Once, I actually volunteered for New Year's Day duty when I knew our unit was going to get that assignment anyway. I knew for me it meant driving troops to different guard points around the post. I felt sorry, a little, for the guys and gals walking perimeter that cold night while I sweated in my big five-ton with the heat on full blast. I even slept in the cab that night, (when I had time to sleep.) I woke up hearing them looking for me in the barracks and, as I recall, was unsure if I should actually let them know where I was.

In performance of my various duties, I drove several different vehicles for the Army. Everything from a one-quarter ton truck, (a jeep), to a five-ton truck to a six-quarter ton truck, (a gamma-goat.) Yeah, everything in the army is pretty much a truck. (I was licensed for a "deuce-and-a-half," but never actually sat behind the wheel of one.) I was even licensed to operate a couple of types of generators. This lead to me being the mess-hall driver, so, when the battery was on a field-problem, I was the guy who would hall troops, food and supplies in my five-ton or gamma-goat out to the field. I even became assistant driver for the "old man" which meant I was the driver for the Top Sergeant and our captain.

Being supply gopher did have its privileges. I'd be in a warm and dry vehicle while others were in the rain or the cold. I'd often get to return to the "rear" while others were stuck in the field. Sometimes, I would get a hot meal straight from the mess that way too. On one occasion while in the rear, I refused to shower, though I had ample opportunity, because I felt that was somehow unfair to the guys stuck in the field. I don't know, but it made sense at the time. I suppose I wanted to show my solidarity with them.

Yes, there were many perks, but you'd sometimes have to be at places at times when others might not have to be. I never minded it, though. I would simply sit in my jeep or truck waiting on whomever I needed to wait on.

I've heard many a story, especially in war-time, how gofers got a way with metaphorical murder because they were sneaky and crooked and used their job for their own gain and/or that of their friends. My experience was never like that. I guess the most that I abused my job was I bragged that I was about the only trooper in the battery who could ask for a three day pass on Thursday morning and have it approved that afternoon.

Funny, but I was also assistant for a lot of jobs. I was assistant driver for Top and the CO, assistant armorer, assistant R&U, ( Repairs & Utilities,) and maybe something else.(I think I might've just been the R&U guy.) I sure did do a lot of assisting. (I think I recall these correctly.)

On any given day, I would be piddling away at some task in the supply room when the supply SP4 would return from a mission for the chief. As often as not, he would return empty-handed, unsuccessful and all too quickly from whatever enterprise he had been assigned. Sgt. Thompson would always fuss & cuss about the specialist's lack of success. Next thing I knew, I heard something I heard on many an occasion.

"I'll just send my private. If I want anything done around here, I've gotta send my private!"

Then, off I'd go to retrieve some much needed machine, machine part, papers or paperwork or to deliver something to someone that needed it delivered to them or to pick up something from someone who needed it picked up from them. It really didn't matter what, it just mattered that it got done. It didn't even seem to matter how long it took. Hey, a twelve-hour day in the Army is a short day, so, I suppose you've got to be busy doing something.

I'd arrive at my destination to do whatever and it would usually turn out to be a waiting game. I always had the good sense to keep a book in my pocket and got a lot of good reading done. (Everything from Milton to Burroughs.) After however much time it took, I'd hear my name or unit or something familiar called out or someone would just, I suppose, get sick of looking at me sitting there. They'd ask what I wanted and fill my order or accept my delivery or do what needed done. Then, I'd be on my way back to my unit. I'd walk through the door and Sgt. Thompson would ask me if I was successful, I'd reply in the affirmative and he'd smile and say those words I actually loved to hear.

"I'll just send my private. If I want anything done around here, I've gotta send my

private!"

Oh, yeah, it was definitely the best job in the Army! I doubt it, but I might've considered re-uping if there had been an MOS for supply gofer. Then, I could've just whiled the hours away sitting on my posterior, reading my books and listening to my supply chief endlessly singing the praises of his private.

　

Private Survival

I was at the motor pool, doing some maintenance on my vehicle. Being a driver, I was required to do some fairly heavy repair on my own vehicles.

I can't remember which one I was working on, but it involved changing a tire. I don't mean just like when you put on a spare, but when you take the tire off the rim and put a new one on it. It was a bit of a strenuous job and I may or may not have been having some difficulties in removing and replacing the old tire.

Before long, I noticed the captain and his XO (Executive Officer) standing, looking over my shoulder, watching me sweat. I didn't pay much attention to them, but mostly went on about my business.

After a few minutes, the captain, (can't recall his name,) began talking, bragging, about how he had been a motor-pool officer earlier in his career. Moreover, he began offering advice on the project set before me. I'm not sure how much attention I was actually paying him, when I found him kneeling on the floor beside me with his hands busy tugging, pulling and pushing on my tire. I moved out of his way. It wasn't very long after that, when the XO, (Lieutenant Dorch, whom we called “LTD,)” had, apparently observing his senior on the floor working, decided he had best join in the fray. Now both of them were on the floor wrestling with my tire. I stood up and stepped back.

It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes with the captain and lieutenant playing mechanic. It was about then when the captain, who had been busy explaining the entire time, looked around to see little old me, Private Davis, standing there, arms crossed, with a big smile on my face, merely as an observer of the entire spectacle.

I suppose it finally dawned on him and he quickly stood up, LTD standing along with him, and, looking at me, said, “Finish this private!” I smiled again saying, “Yes, sir” and returned to the work at hand.

I learned a very valuable lesson about people that day. They like to feel their value and will do a lot of crazy stuff to prove it. Even an Army officer can easily be pulled into a booby-trap by playing to his ego.

Yes, I know it's passive-aggressive. Sometimes, though, it took little stunts like that to survive as a private, (later PFC,) in Uncle Sam's Army. In the end, it's all about survival.

On a further note, I decided long ago that I have little or nothing to prove. Many a time some insecure someone will come along who wants to do the work and run the show. Most every time, if I feel that it will not harm me or mine, I stand back and let them do it, smiling all the while. It's a joke they just can't seem to get.

Calling Cadence

You do a lot of singing in the Army. (Although, I don't remember anyone calling it “singing.”) In the Army, it's called “cadence.” Cadence can be done while running or marching. I don't recall doing it stationary except one time outside of the mess hall when SSG Ligon was trying to teach us some new ones.

Cadence defined, in Army style, means someone leads by calling out a part of a song which is then, in turn, responded to by the squad, platoon, company, etc. It involves a lot of, shall we say, songs, many of which have more or less familiar tunes and lyrics and some of which I've not heard before or after the service.

Now, these cadences are centered around Army life, usually, but they can involve a lot of things. They refer to war, whiskey, women and, even, the civilian world. They can be mocking, facetious, gory, inspiring, hilarious and, often, downright filthy!

I think there's a lot of Southern influence in cadences. Much of the pronunciation and some of the turns of phrases and idioms seems very Southern to me. Considering and inordinate number, even the majority, of military personnel are from the South, that would only make sense.

Strangely enough, a few had more than one version: an “R rated” version or a PG rated one. It seemed to sometimes have a lot to do with the mood of the Drill Sergeant, good, bad or goofy, which version of some cadences he would call.

Some D.I.'s, (Drill Instructor) were better at it than others. It wasn't necessarily based so much on whether or not they had a good singing voice, but it seems the ones with the better voices did a better job.

One D.I. from another platoon was especially good. (I think he and Ligon were the best.) I'd hear him sing and whistle and he had a real talent for both. Once when we were marching, again, who knows where, he was calling cadence I was being, I suppose, especially boisterous in my attempt to sincerely imitate his style. I was having a grand old time when suddenly I found Ligon in my face asking me if I wanted to be a “satellite” around the platoon. I hadn't a clue what he meant, but had the good sense to say, “No, Sergeant Ligon.” He concluded with a stern affirmation that I sound off properly and I did my best to do so leaving all of the “soul” I had been putting into my voice out. Later, upon seeing a formation of troops running down the road and one particularly pathetic trainee running circles around them as they went, I was suddenly very aware of what a “satellite” was and very glad to not have been one.

We were all required to “sound off,” meaning, of course, sing very, very loudly! Screaming and shouting would also suffice. If we failed to make enough noise, it would result in punishment for the guilty and the innocent. Trying to meet expectations would leave most of us so hoarse we could barely speak after a long day of marching and cadence.

Some cadences involved stomping your foot at certain times to accentuate the rhythm or, as one platoon sergeant taught us in Georgia, snap your fingers as you marched. The creativity of some of the D.I.'s, platoon sergeants and general cadence callers would add to the fun or just plain cool factor of the entire event. (Sometimes, lower ranks called cadence, too.)

Once, the entire platoon was punished because of one particular D.I. His accent, not sure where he was from, was so horrible and he chewed his words so terribly that we couldn't tell what he was saying and as we marched along, we sounded off less and less. SSG Ligon, my D.I., was so upset with us that he put us through some intense drills laced with a load of yelling and swearing to bring the lesson home.

Once, while out on bivouac, we were marching from somewhere to somewhere and Sergeant Ligon was calling the “R” rated version of a particular cadence that I normally enjoyed when it was in its more “PG” edition. He had proceeded this specific cadence with some somewhat unruly ones and then, having dived into this, well, obscene cadence that I found virtually impossible to join in with considering every fourth word was, let's say, not found in the Bible. I found myself flabbergasted and unable to find speech for a very lengthy moment.

Now, being the Fourth Platoon, Fourth Squad, Assistant Squad Leader, I was always at the rear of the platoon. Unfortunately for me, Ligon just happened to be very near the back of the platoon calling cadence on this particular day. Finding myself speechless at this unfortuitous moment, Ligon just happened to look at me, the same time I looked at him. I've explained already that not sounding off properly is cause for swift punishment, so I expected to find myself as a satellite around the platoon or worse. Then, the strangest of things happened. Ligon just smiled. Yes, he just looked directly into my eyes, cast a knowing smile my way, turned his head back toward the platoon and continued as if nothing happened.

It took a minute for me to realize I was not in trouble. Then another minute to regain my composure. By this time, Ligon had moved onto a more repeatable cadence and I enthusiastically joined in with the rest of the platoon.

Now, what made him overlook my obvious dereliction of duty and ignore my lack of noise making, well, I can only guess. I had had several small chats with both SSG Ligon and SFC Johnson, my Drill Sergeants, and I also had a bit of a “rep” around the entire platoon. I was not one for obscenity and everyone, including the D.I.'s knew it. So, maybe Ligon ultimately thought that this was great fun to go places he knew I wouldn't and enjoyed seeing me looking like a landed fish gasping for air. Who knows? I'm just glad I didn't get in any trouble that day and that knowledge was enough for Private Davis.

Below, I'll include the lyrics to some of the more memorable cadences we did at my various posts of service. I'll mention whether or not the versions are the “PG” one, but won't even hint at what the alternative might be. Many of the tunes were similar or the same, with just different lyrics and themes.

1. “Up Jumped the Sergeant” PG version
   
   

1. Up jumped the sergeant from the coconut grove.

He was an Airborne Ranger, you could tell by his clothes.

He'd run through the jungle with a knife in his hand,

Killing every Commie bastard that was in the land.

He whipped ninety-eight 'til his fists turned blue.

Then he “knocked out ten” and he whipped (pronounced “whooped”) the other two.

And when he died, he went straight to Hell.

He whipped the devils demons and his brother as well.

And on his tombstone, it clearly reads:

“Here lies the Airborne Infantry!”

Singing Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day!

Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day

2. Up in the mornin' 'for the break of day.

I don't like it. No way!

Eat my breakfast too soon.

My stomach's growlin' before noon./Hungry as Hell, before noon.

Went to the mess sergeant on my knees,

Sayin', “Mess Sergeant, Mess Sergeant, feed me please!”

Mess Sergeant looked at me with a grin.

Said, “If you wanna be Airborne, you gotta be thin.”

Singing Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day!

Hey-ey all the way!

We run every day

2. “Oh, Leanna!”

Oh, Leanna! Oh, Lee-o-Leanna!

Oh, Lee-o-lee-o-lee-o-lee. Oh, Lee-o-lee-anna!

(Various versions of lyrics would follow the chorus)

3. “At Ft. Wood” or “Vietnam” (Chorus sung to the tune of “Poison Ivy)

At Fort Wood. At Fort Wood.

Late at night, when you're a sleepin'

Drill Sergeants come a creepin' around.

1. You see the flash of cannon.
   You see your buddy's blood.
   Oh, what a hell-of-a-way to die!

(Various versions of lyrics would follow the chorus)

“Vietnam” version simply changed up the chorus.

1. Vietnam! Vietnam!
   Late at night, when you're a sleepin',
   Charlie Cong comes a creepin' around!

3. “Amen!”

Amen!

Came to Leonard Wood.

Amen!

To do my body good.

Amen!

And be a soldier!

Amen! Amen! Amen!

Amen!

On graduation day.

Amen!

I hear the people say,

Amen!

That he's a soldier.

Amen! Amen! Amen!

4. “Lifer”

He's a lifer. Pray for him.

Twenty years and he's still in.

Twenty years of shinin' brass.

Twenty years of kissin' ass.

He's a lifer. Pray for him.

Twenty years and he's still in.

Other verses and variations included:

Sergeant (fill-in-the-blank) is turnin' green.

Someone pissed in his canteen.

5. “Jody”

Ain't no sense in lookin' back.

Jody's got your Cadillac.

Ain't no sense in lookin' down.

Ain't no discharge on the ground.

Ain't no sense in going home.

Jody's got your girl and gone.

(Many other verses and variations ad nauseum.)

6. “You Had a Good Home”

You had a good home when you left!

You're right!

Your mother was there when you left!

You're right!

Your father was there when you left!

You're right!

Your girlfriend was there when you left!

You're right!

You were a fool when you left!

You're right!

You were a fool when you left!

You're right!

The D.I. would call the different phrases and the trainees would respond with “You're right!”

(This was accentuated by stomping the left foot on the beat when the word “left” was said. One female D.I. would especially emphasize the word “fool” when calling this particular cadence.)

There were so many and so many more I, regrettably, can't recall. I wish I had written them down earlier. Still, it's funny looking back over the silly things we said and did that the Army, in its great wisdom and centuries of experience, used to support cohesiveness, camaraderie and esperit de corps. They actually knew what they were doing.

Army Language Test

One of the interesting things that happened to me while in the service, like many others, occurred while I was still at the Reception Center at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. The Reception Center, incidentally, was where they put you before you actually go to Basic Training. It involved a haircut, (which they actually charged me for,) uniform issue, hygiene lessons, learning how to walk in formation and a lot of shots. Did I mention, a lot of shots?

So, it came to pass, one day, that they had us standing in formation, after a not too long march, outside of what I would describe as WW II style barracks. (A lot of buildings had that appearance. ) I can still picture the trees and the structures themselves very vividly. We weren't there long before myself and several others were told to “fall out” of formation and report to one of the buildings directly before us. (I remember Shelby, who became our platoon leader later, being one of the recruits.)

We entered the building, which had at some time in the distant past, been converted into a class room of sorts. There were desks, like high school, and what appeared to be a teacher's desk at the front. I believe there may have even been a large chalk board behind the “teacher's desk.”

It wasn't long before, I think, an NCO appeared at the front of the room and began explaining to us why we had been singled out from the rest of the platoon. I wasn't quite sure if I was in trouble at this point, but I was terribly curious.

As he explained, we had been brought there because we all had done exceptionally well on our ASVAB, (Army Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) test. I felt special! We were now going to take another test. Oh, boy! This test, as it was explained further, was required before being able to attend a military language crash-course that Special Forces candidates were required to attend if they didn't already speak a second language. (Yes, Green Berets are required to be able to communicate in a second language.) He continued that we would spend the next couple of hours learning a mock language, that we would then be tested on and, if receiving a pass, we would be allowed to move to a special forces M.O.S. (Mode of Service.) Yipee! He also explained the scoring process, which was something to the effect of a required 116 out of a possible 150 or 160. Anyway, it seemed weird.

So, the test soon commenced and we studied made up words and made up grammar and made up sentences. It was not uninteresting or unchallenging. I suppose it took at least two hours and my brain felt a little fried when the entire process was over.

They then took up our tests, promising us an answer post haste. We all waited with curiosity and bated breath.

When I received my results, I couldn't help but laugh. I had achieved the absolute minimal score required to pass. Still, I passed. (I remember Shelby passed too.)

It was all a very fascinating experience and gave our small crew something to chat about and, perhaps,even, a small amount of more or less merited pride. Being singled out, as we were, not to mention actually passing.

Still, I thought it was funny in other respects. I was pretty sure SFC Johnson, my recruiter, had told me that I had done well enough on my ASVAB to do any job I wanted as long as it didn't include the Airborne. It seems flat feet and jumping out of planes don't mix. The Army obviously had my medical records, so they knew about my little deformity. So, I did find that entire scenario mysterious due to those little facts. But, hey, as I was too learn, there is sense and there is Army sense.

All in all, it was fun and curious, but it was to no avail. Airborne? Special Forces? Rangers? Green Berets? Not me! I've always heard there were two things that fall out of the sky: Fools and bird shit! I had already decided I was neither.

Cross County

I've always been very honest about my, albeit short-lived, military career. I served two years in the Regular Army and a one year hitch in the active Army Reserve. No wars, no battles and no overseas deployment for me. Still, some things I consider interesting happened. This is one.


You spend a lot of time running in the Army. (No, not jogging!) In Basic Training, A.I.T. (Advanced Individual Training) and, of course, Permanent Party Duty. Most of that time is spent running in formation with dozens or even scores of other troopers. It can be fun, after a fashion, but can be quite difficult at times since you are often trapped within the group and trying to keep your feet untangled, although it becomes more or less natural, can be a problem. Ergo, there was usually a fight for the road-guard vests since that allowed you to run either in advance or arrears of the formation. Shucks, you even got to stand at every street intersection providing ample opportunity to rest and catch your breath.


There were other ways to avoid “running with the pack,” so to speak. One might be on pass, leave, sick call, duty or even one might volunteer for cross-country. I chose the latter. (Not without a little encouragement from two of my buddies: Gary C. Cutshall and Jefferey N. Radkey.)


Cross-country meant a ten-klick run. (That's 6.1 miles to you civilians.) It was less “cross-country” than up and down the streets on post. Still, there was a lot, a lot, of up and down. We would break off from the rest of the group after calisthenics and go do our own thing. We'd laugh and cut up and have a general good time. I came to enjoy running so much, that I would run sometimes on days when I didn't have to do so.

We ran against other units on post in friendly competitions. It always meant being away from my unit, which was always a plus.

One of the more memorable runs I participated in was for the Fortieth Anniversary of the 101^st Airborne Division. The entire week was a blast with celebrations of myriad sort and exhibitions and mock battle. The day of the run was, more-or-less, the end of festivities. There were runners from, I suppose, all over the world. Many came to the run from other divisions. All told, there were over a thousand participants that day.

We ran and ran and ran and ran. Uphill and downhill. Meandering our way though the streets of Ft. Campbell. They actually had water stations set up along the way and I grabbed the occasional paper cup to help me through the very hot day. When I reached the end of the course, my pals were waiting on me, (yes, they were faster,) and they cheered me on as I came closer to my destination, finally sprinting across the finish line. I was pleased to be told that I actually finished in the top one hundred of the runners that day. Not a small achievement, considering my flat feet and that there were many guys and gals there tougher than I.


I normally did well on these runs. I never finished first, but never finished last. Was I the strongest? Was I the fastest? Nope, I think not. I did have a secret to my, shall I say, success, though. I was persistent and determined. I'll explain exactly what I mean.


While traveling along the post streets, crowded with runners, I observed many who were falling by the wayside, “falling out” we called it. Many slowing down and, even, quite a few, just walking. I knew if I simply kept a steady pace, I'd easily leave many of them behind. The method that I employed, though, that allowed me to advance furthest of all among the multitude, was what happened on any incline we reached.


Most people tend to slow down when going uphill, but not me! No, this was where I, shall we say, shined. As everyone else was slowing down, I would actually pour on the steam. This not only allowed me to pass a few, but I would pass many more even than I might have. It was a system that worked without fail against the average weaker and slower runners. Not so much so against the really strong contestants, but, hey, I was never going to catch them anyway.


So, today, looking back, knowing that I once could and would run all those miles and actually enjoy it, astounds even myself to this day. It was a great experience and the memories I enjoy and the lessons I learned have been invaluable to me down through the decades.

The First Time

I remember the first time I joined the Army. Yes, I actually joined the Army twice, but only served once.

I had been out of high school for probably less than a year and was barely eighteen. At the time, I was working at the Athens Table Company operating a tenon saw.

Simply put, it was a large, dangerous, double-bladed saw designed to shape the edges of boards so they could be built into things like...desks and tables. I got the job because the guy who was working the saw got his hand caught in it and, though he kept his hand, I'm not so sure that it ever was the same. (I do remember him actually returning to work there some time thereafter.) So, I was offered a raise and a transfer from a press that I was then operating.

After some months of doing this job and realizing that it, like my life, was dead end and that there was no real hope for a future there for me, I got the notion to talk to an Army recruiter and see what he had to offer. He had some wonderful words to say about college money and travel in Europe. I would be attending Basic Training at Ft. Dix, New Jersey, (coincidentally where dad had had his basic before being shipped to Africa to fight Nazis,) and showed me on a map where I would be stationed in Deutschland to listen in on Communist radio broadcasts. (Yes, the U.S.S.R. was still alive and kicking back then.) It all sounded very fascinating and terrifying.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more terrifying it became. I was eighteen, legally an adult, but awfully, awfully immature. I mean, ridiculously so! That's when things got worse.

One early morning on the job, as was occasionally the case, there was no work for me on my machine, so they sent me to work on another. Sometimes, it was a table saw and sometimes a band saw and, as was the case this morning, a double-bladed router.

I had used them before and had a very good idea of how to use them, but, for some reason, I wasn't exactly on my game this day. It was cold and I was thinking that my fingers were numb when a really, really stupid idea popped into my head. A pipe was set up on the table just so that it would blow shavings away from the blades and I noticed that the air coming out was actually warm. Before I thought, I put the fingers near the tube, which was, of course, too near the blades and, before I knew, I had clipped the ends off of my fingers. I remember vividly the piles of sawdust around my machine being splattered with my very own blood!

I called my boss over, he said some choice words and someone took me to the hospital. They bandaged my hands and sent me back to the job for paperwork. After that, I went home, in less pain than you might've imagined. (The real pain was, a couple of days later, when the nurse at the factory removed the bandages that were stuck with dried blood to my fingers.)

So, the next thing I had to do was contact my recruiter, who set up a very brief appointment with a recruiter doctor who said, "Well, you can't do pushups with that hand." I was given a postponement, but was hoping for a little more.

This entire episode resulted in me spending several weeks at home with mom and dad, but no paycheck. Yes, maybe I should've been paid somehow, but was too ignorant to know how those things worked.

As it was, I was, frankly, more and more afraid of leaving hearth and home and momma's apron strings, to go off on the adventure of a lifetime with Uncle Sam's Army. To make it worse, things were tough around the house financially and physically. Dad had not been sick for very long, and I was stuck with too much time to worry, be afraid and wallow in my own, dare I say it, cowardice.
After some time, I contacted my recruiting sergeant and attempted to explain my predicament. I can't say he was exactly happy with my new found reluctance, but, looking back, he was more helpful than I deserved. He set up an appointment with his boss, a captain who I was to meet me in Knoxville, for a discussion concerning my desire to get out of my commitment through, what was called, a "hardship."

I talked to the captain, attempting to retain some modicum of dignity, never realizing I was actually failing miserably. He did, ultimately, recommended me for a discharge from the Delayed Entry Program (D.E.P.) He told me that, as a caveat, I could not join any branch of the military for three years. I had no problem with that. Then he said some words to me that I've never forgotten and that I was too young, naïve and downright stupid to appreciate. He said that he hated for me to not go because I "would've made a hell of a soldier!"

I came home, greatly relieved, but none the wiser. I didn't even go back to the Table Company to tell them of my non-military situation. I only knew that I didn't want to go back there and sought new employment.

I found a job waiting tables at Western Sizzlin' Steak House. As far as I know, I'm the first waiter they ever had there.

Three plus years passed and my life was still going nowhere. So I decided to, once again, give some serious thought to the military. I was a little older, if only slightly more mature, and had still not gotten it out of my blood. I suppose being reared on John Wayne and apple pie, not to mention being a baby-boomer son of a WW II veteran as well as a brother to a Vietnam veteran, it was fairly natural for me to want to give at least of couple of years of my life to serving our country in uniform.

So, I told dad I was going to Cleveland to the recruiter’s off to talk to the Air Force. I thought that they would provide the best opportunity for some technical training that might prove useful after my hitch was up. I came home telling him I was, for a number of reasons, joining the Army instead. Dad was amazingly agreeable about the entire episode.