Yesterday I wrote about the 14th of July 1967 and why it is a special anniversary for me.  Three years earlier, 14 July 1964, I had climbed on a Greyhound in El Cajon, rode that dog to LA, found the designated hotel, ate dinner and crashed.  The next morning I got up, and had breakfast, then walked the six or so blocks to the AFES building (called "MEPPS" now), spent the day in my underwear walking from station to station getting tested, evaluated, poked, prodded, inoculated, filling out forms, answering endless streams of questions, and generally being embarassed and wondering how the heck I ever thought that this could be a good idea.  At the end the day they crowded me into a room full of others who had been sharing my space all day...we were now fully dressed...and we raised our right hands and took an oath to support and defend blah blah blah the officers appointed blah blah blah 'til death do us part.  The officer who conducted the swearing in congratulated us for joining the Army or Navy or Marines or Air Force and wished us a happy journey through our military experience. 

We were herded to buses that took us to the main LA train station where we ate dinner while we waited for the train that would take us to Salinas.  That evening we rode out of LA for Salinas and our final destination:  Fort Ord. ( I was such a rookie I thought they were saying "Four Door" until I saw the sign over the gate).   The day ended (officially:  Midnight) somewhere in the central valley of California as I tried unsuccessfully to catch a few Zs.  I was in the Army now.

15 July 1964 changed the course of my life forever.  I found out that I loved it.  Basic training was a surprise;  I had expected it to be a lot harder, but it wasn't...it was just hard enough.  I thought that I would have a lot of trouble with it...but I didn't...I was just tough enough.  My basic training platoon was about evenly split between draftees and enlistees.  The general atmosphere was one of reluctance and bitterness.  There was a lot of talk about how much we hated the Army.  I didn't.  Of course, at 17 years of age I wasn't about to make a stand...I went along with the prevailing attitude.  But I didn't hate it...I loved it.  I loved the cadence songs we sang as we marched..."I wanna be an Airborn Ranger"....Oooohhhh Soldier....Combat Soldier....pick up your rifle and follow me...."  "A yellow bird....with a yellow bill..." and all the others.  I loved the uniforms, the boots, especially the khakis (I know that dates me but I did love them, especially the long sleeves);  I loved marching, and shooting, and the smell of the canvas web gear we wore, the weight of the steel pot on my head, oh lawsy I loved it all. 

I couldn't believe some of the stuff I learned that first few months...the first time I had to line up and walk across a field or parking lot to pick up cigarette butts...CIGARETTE BUTTS!!!   WHO THE HECK PICKS UP CIGARETTE BUTTS???  Me, that's who...Standing guard over an empty stretch of beach...And lots of other little adjustments.  But in spite of the silliness, I still loved it.  The first time I heard one of our instructors refer to the way we were treating his Army, something clicked in my brain...."Yeah...MY Army..." and forever after, it was My Army in my heart and mind.

When I went into the Army in 1964 I couldn't have found Vietnam on a globe of the world.  I had heard a few things about it but had no real awareness of it at all.  A few times in basic a sergeant or two made reference to Vietnam in relation to some of the things we were learning.  "You pull that crap in the Nam and you will be dead"....or..."You crawl with your butt in the air like that in Nam you'll ride home standing up"...and such.  Things got kinda ugly by the time my first hitch was up, but in 1964 a uniform generally got treated with respect.  My friends at home told me they looked up to me.  My family bragged about me.  I felt like I belonged.  Even when some blue-stubbled, whiskey-breathed, mirrored-shaded sergeant got an inch from my face and sprayed me with his alcohol-fueled spittle while he chewed me up one side and down the other, somewhere inside I was thinking..."Yeah, one of these days I'll be the whiskey-breath spittin' on the cruits". 

I was raised by a Navy man, a CPO, WWII vet, and an old-time sailor complete with tattoos, busted nose, and a "Popeye" squint.  He instilled in me a love of country, a sense of duty, and an ability to spit-shine like a pro.   The Army just felt right.  I felt like I was doing something meaningful.  I honestly felt like I was serving my country.

Oh, don't get me wrong, there were days when I swore I would never be a lifer...sometimes I even wondered if I would stick around for the three-year hitch.  But even when I did get out, I felt like I should have been back in.  I fought it...but it was there...I was a lifer and that's all there was to it.

So, three years later when I drove away from Fort Huachuca, it was a blissful moment of freedom...but even though I would have loudly declared otherwise...I knew I would be back.  Three months later I was.