I had my best friend take me to the bus station. I had him drive me there because I didn't want to see my Mom cry...and I didn't want her to see me cry. I had him drop me off at the bus stop because I didn't want him to see me cry, either. I was seventeen years old; I had talked Mom into signing my enlistment papers but she was not too sure about it. As I watched Chuck drive away, waving as he went, I wasn't too sure myself. But I was committed. The papers had been signed, the orders issued, bus tickets and hotel voucher received, and instructions given. For all intents and purposes, I was in the Army. The Greyhound groaned and whished to a stop, the door popped open and I stepped up into a new world. The journey had begun.

The Greyhound dropped me at the main depot in Los Angeles. The hotel was a short, scary walk. Downtown LA didn't seem so ominous when I was cruising it in the safety of my '55 Chevy. On foot and alone, it was a much more up-close-and-personal experience. When I checked in I found that I was sharing a room with a total stranger. The voucher included a dinner meal in the hotel; it wasn't an inspiring meal, but not too bad compared to what was to come. I went to bed early because we were getting up at 5:30 am:  breakfast at 6:00am, walk the five or six blocks to the induction station by 7:00am.

The morning was warm and clear and the walk was refreshing;  I wasn't used to walking any distance, but I sort of enjoyed it. The steps up to the induction station were already jammed with a huge variety of young men. We were gradually herded into a large room with school-type desks where we began a long day of paperwork, tests, physical exams, walking around in our underwear (some funny guy got a laugh out of all of us when, as we were putting our clothes back on, he referred to the whole thing as a very "touching" experience...we had been touched EVERYWHERE), and after more than ten hours of this, we all stood in the big room (the desks had been moved out) and we raised our hands and swore into whichever service we were there for. There was a jokey fellow behind me who was being drafted into the Army. He swore himself into the Marines. He went with us anyway. We were issued another meal voucher and bused to the main Railway Station. After eating in the train station dining room and waiting for a couple of hours, we boarded a train for "Fourdoor". They had been telling us all day that we were lucky to going to "Fourdoor" because a lot of inductees were going to Fort Jackson or Fort Leonard Wood for basic training. I didn't know where any of these places were.

The train was a silver streamliner. As it glided out of the station northbound, a lot of us drifted off to sleep. It had been a long day and full of stress. We rode all through the night to Salinas, I think. It was chilly and breezy as we detrained and lined up to board the buses for our ride to "Fourdoor"...which turned out to be "Fort Ord", another place I had never heard of.

We were hustled off the bus and lined up in front of a row of wooden barracks buildings. Little yellow footprints on the pavement told us where to stand and we stood there for some time, not allowed to talk or smoke or sit or anything. It was just shy of 4:00 am when a sergeant came out of the building in front of us and started yelling.  I am not sure what he was so upset about, but he yelled for a good ten minutes and in there somewhere were some instructions about which barracks we were assigned to, when haircuts were to be done, and more stuff like that. It was all very confusing but fortunately, we were not allowed to do anything on our own. We went everywhere as a group. One of the instructions the yeller issued (and apparently got by me) had to do with not throwing cigarette butts on the ground. We were only allowed to smoke when we were told it was allowed and then only for a few minutes at a time. When called back to our "formation" from our first smoke break, I dropped my cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. I had barely stepped off of it when I was pounced upon by no less than two sergeants and three corporals and yelled at and abused and forced to pick up every cigarette butt in the area. Fortunately, there weren't that many butts and I wasn't the only one who didn't get the word, so the work went quickly. I later learned that the "corporals" were actually privates who had graduated from basic training and were awaiting assignment to their advanced training. They were made acting corporals because they showed  a talent and initiative to be loud and abusive. The reception station recruits were their targets.

After going to our barracks, being issued our linens and blankets, identifying which was our bunk, and storing our bags, we were back out on the footprints again. It was foggy, cold, and very tired out. But it just so happens that the Army starts it day at 4:00am (we quickly learned that it was 0400 hours, really;  put all that civilian stuff behind you!). So we started by being herded to the mess hall for breakfast. I didn't eat much. I don't like limp bacon, runny eggs, black toast, or rock hard oatmeal. That didn't leave much...just some cold cereal and coffee so black the spoon stood up on its own in there. After breakfast we were standing on our own footprints where we learned how to answer with our first name and middle initial when our last name was called. The Smiths just had to learn when it was their turn alphabetically. We were taught the basics of marching and facing and turning the columns and such because we had to spend the rest of our days at the reception station moving as a group.

We were marched to the Central Issue Facility and issued one field jacket and two "KP" caps. From CIF we were marched straight to the barber. "Just a little off the sides" was such a standard joke that it quit getting a laugh after the first twenty or thirty times. We had to pay for that haircut, too (just a side note:  I retired from Fort Ord twenty-eight years later...and got my last haircut in the Army in the same shop, same chair as my first). We came out of the barber shop a group of strangers. I had become friendly with an LA kid named Joey Vierra and another guy whose name escapes me. We were separated by virtue of our alphabetical places in the formation and after our haircuts we had to find each other all over again because no one recognized anyone.

After haircuts, it was back to the footprints while we prepared for the first round of paperwork. As we stood waiting for the forms to be filled in, one of the sergeants warned us that we would be going into a large office where there were a lot of women working on our forms so we had better watch our language because anyone who embarassed one of the ladies would be in "Deep Doo Doo" (he didn't say doo doo).  We were marched up the street and stopped in front of another of the wooden WWII barracks buildings; this one had something to do with financial in-processing. A Sergeant First Class in dress green uniform festooned with stripes and colorful ribbons and badges stepped out of the office and started a tirade with "You f***ing idiots better watch your f***ing language inside this f***ing office...." and the rest of it followed in that vein for at least five minutes. It was quite a shock.  "Doo Doo" was common enough in public but in 1964 the "F-bomb" was not only uncommon, but having it screamed at you repeatedly by a huge, red-faced, angry man was unheard of.

 And so it began. From the perspective of a lifetime in green, I can see how much fun those young folks had being in charge of "shocking" the new recruits into the system. Many things were foreign to us...picking up cigarette butts? Who picks up cigarette butts? Aside from the processing that is necessary, Reception Station's function is to begin stripping the individual of all those "individual" ideas. They kept us confused and off balance;  they LIKED us to be scared and they were in our faces constantly, reminding us of our worthlessness. We were not ready to be in THEIR Army. Like a good fitness program, you have to break down the muscles first to start the building. From boarding the bus in El Cajon to standing in the fog of "Fourdoor", I must have asked myself at least a hundred times, "What am I doing here?"