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Bugging Out Sanctuary Unlimited
Synopsis When the fighting of the so-called “Korean Conflict” was over, and the Vietnam era was only an embryo, there was a time of relative peace that was called “The Eisenhower Years.” But the draft was still a fact of life for young men like me. This didn’t bother me because I saw compulsory military service as an opportunity, not a problem. I was financially strapped at the time after working my way through three years of college, and the idea came to me that it might be good to drop out after my junior year, get married to Mary, and then offer myself up to the draft process. This plan would make me eligible for the G.I. Bill of Rights after completing my two years in the Army. Then I would go back to Boston College for my senior year with Uncle Sam paying my tuition plus some money for basic living expenses. Mary and I agreed on the plan, and it sounded very logical to us. As this memoir opens, I was about to become a draftee and there was a slight complication. Not only was I married, but Mary was already expecting our first child and I was just starting to adjust to the idea of being a father so soon after tying the marital knot. Also, I was completely oblivious about how Army life might affect me. My thinking was that since countless thousands of guys had served in the military, why couldn’t I? The problem was that I was not other guys; I was a character whose name should have been Thomas Freedom O’Connell instead of Thomas Frederick. How could I remain free in the regimentation of Army life? I had no idea. After all, I lived in a world of fantasy in those days. Dreams of glory! So the reality of Army life completely escaped me until I was on my way to becoming a citizen soldier. If some expert had done a personality profile on me to see if I was cut out for Army life I would have been disqualified after answering the first few questions. But how was I to know this about myself? After all, I had been raised on John Wayne movies and immersed in patriotic themes during all of my early years. How could I think otherwise? I was in for a very rude awakening. Almost instantly I realized that just about every aspect of the military training was an assault on my independent personality, not to mention my sensitive body. And this posed a serious conflict between the need to do my duty and the necessity of trying to avoid losing my sense of self. “Bugging out” soon became an option for me, yet I had never even heard the phrase as a civilian. I knew what “goofing off” was but not “bugging out.” This is the story of what I learned about “bugging out” soon after being inducted into the Army, and how I became a confirmed “bug-out” without ever planning to do so.
Contact:
Tom O'Connell - P.O. Box 25, Dennisport, MA 02639
Bugging Out: Published in the United States by Copyright 2007 by Tom O'Connell
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except for brief quotes embodied in critical articles or reviews. Inquiries: Sanctuary Unlimited, PO Box 25, Dennisport, MA 02639. Library of Congress Cataloging in
Publication Data 1. O’Connell, Tom 1932-- 10: Softcover 0-9620318-7-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2002096027 Dedicated
To lovers of personal freedom and
autonomy -------
"In the centre of the castle of
Brahman, our own body, -------
Thanks
Foreword This page is about the words I used in this memoir and how they came to me. Initially, I took a close look at the word “memoir” which derives from the French word for “memory.” Our English word “memory” is defined as the “process of recalling to mind facts previously learned or past experiences.” Using my memory to produce this book, I also triggered “impressions” that can be described as “notions, feelings, or recollections.” Therefore, what we have here is a blend of distinct memories and strong impressions. Nearly half a century after my U.S. Army experience, I have written a memoir based on my ability to recall many people, past events, and impressions. However, I was not able to do this through memory alone. Actually, while in the Army I knew even then that I would write about my military experiences some day, so I often scribbled observations and saved them. Also, I wrote a daily letter to my spouse during the months we were apart, and they are still in my files. They have been very useful in this work. Apparently, I was operating like an archivist gathering data to be filed away for future reference. In addition, the Army, which was fueled by paper, provided an ongoing record in the form of military orders and other information. As for the dialogue I have used here, obviously I could not possibly have remembered each word spoken. But I could vividly recall the reality of the experiences, the people, and my own emotional responses. Because of the powerful impact my Army experience had on me, I have been able to clearly remember situations that carried strong meaning. Those memorable impressions helped me to put together this memoir. To sum up, what I am presenting here is a very personal collection of memories, observations, and impressions. Have I exaggerated? I don’t believe so. If anything, while aiming for objectivity, I may have understated some of what happened during my first year of Army service.
At any rate, my experiences from March until November 1954 were
intense in their own right and needed no exaggeration. Therefore, be
assured that this memoir is a reasonably accurate account of one
draftee’s experiences in the “peacetime Army” of 1954 during the period
when the Korean conflict was ending and the Vietnam era was beginning.
Bugging Out:
Part I 1 At one extreme there are patriots, and at another there are “draft dodgers,” but I was in another category that you don’t hear much about. I was a “bug-out.” And if you looked into a dictionary back in the fifties you wouldn’t be apt to find the word. More recently, dictionaries have defined what bugging out is. To “bug out” means “to leave or quit, usually in a hurry” or “to avoid a responsibility or duty.” When I entered the Army those definitions certainly didn’t apply to me. After all, I was a very responsible person, planned to do my patriotic duty, and had never even heard the word “bug-out.” Have you heard of Murphy’s Laws? Here’s one for you: “If everything seems to be going well you have obviously overlooked something.” Although nobody seems to know who Murphy was, or what happened to him, his laws seem to hang around the same way those irritating truths in old proverbs linger. The older I get the more sense Murphy’s laws make to me, like the one about the bread tending to fall so the buttered side slaps against the brand new rug. But back in 1954, if you had quoted Murphy to me to get me to be less cocksure about my plans for the future, I would have told you exactly where you could shove Murphy’s laws, and Murphy, too, if you could lay your hands on him. I was an optimist! You see, back in 1954 when I made a plan, by God, that plan was bound to work out. Nobody could tell me otherwise because I had great confidence in my rational mind then. And I thought my rational mind was telling me the exact route to follow. Here’s what I believed was the right logical course of action. I would drop out of Boston College after my junior year. Then I would work for a while full-time. Then I’d notify the Dedham Draft Board that I wasn’t going to go back to college that fall. Mary and I would marry. Eventually, the draft board would take away my college deferment, make me 1-A, and I’d become draft bait. Then the letter from Uncle Sam would come. I’d put in my two years in the Army, get discharged, and go back to BC on the GI Bill of Rights for my senior year. After graduation, as my rational plan moved toward completion, I would go off into the sunset to a successful career with Mary as my spouse. And we would live happily ever after. Well, what could be more logical than that? This was what my allegedly rational mind told me, and in those days I believed that so-called rational mind of mine. Nowadays, of course, I’m not sure on some days that I have any mind at all, not to mention a rational one. And there are times when I think that my irrational mind knows more about what’s good for me than the “rational” mind does. Also, in those days I was not aware of the expression, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” In any case, back in 1954 when I was in the top ten percent of my class at BC, I was sure I had one of the most finely tuned rational minds in the history of the human race. So I followed its dictates the way a political flunky follows the party line, with no questions asked. Some people look back on the fifties with nostalgia. I look back on them with a pit in my stomach. Actually, with the exception of my daughter Peggy’s birthday, I usually try not to remember the year 1954 at all. However, I was scanning my backlog of unread magazines a while ago, and an illustration caught my eye. It was a collage of old newspaper clippings on assorted subjects, and one of them brought that ancient pit back to my stomach. It was a historical retrospective on the Selective Service System and the draft registration requirement that had begun in 1948 for my “Depression baby” generation. The article reminded me that over the years the word “draftee” had become more and more archaic as a volunteer Army of professionals had become the order of the day. Peace on earth, good will toward men, and God bless our professional Army. The last thing in the world I felt like thinking about this year was my Army time in the fifties. But as I read the article, it all came back to me against my will. “The peacetime Army” is what they called it when they took me in March of ’54. The Eisenhower years were considered “peacetime years” because they were seen as times of stability, trivial cares, and minor worries. They were the good old days, some people say now. Oh boy, what a time we had, they say. After all, the fighting of the Korean “conflict” was over and the carnage in Vietnam hadn’t begun. At least not the United States portion of it.
The first step toward entering the U.S. Army had been my Army physical examination.
Selective Service System Local Board No. 26 Norfolk County Memorial Hall Dedham, Massachusetts
Order to Report for Armed Forces Physical Examination Nov. 24, 1953 To Thomas F. O’Connell, Jr. #192632368 You are hereby directed to report for armed forces physical examination at Local Board 26, Town Hall, Dedham, Mass. at 7:00 a.m. on the 9th of December 1953. Katherine C. Jones, Clerk of Local Board
On that expedition, starting at Dedham’s Local Draft Board No. 26, I had been appointed group leader of the draftees from my town and neighboring communities. Since I was age 21 and married, they must have assumed I was mature, and of course I also operated under that delusion myself.
Dec. 9, 1953 Office of the Director of Selective Service, Washington To Whom It May Concern: Special confidence being placed in the integrity and ability of Thomas F. O’Connell, Jr., he is hereby appointed leader of a contingent of selected men from Local Board No. 26, State of Mass., Address: Memorial Hall, Dedham, Mass. He is, therefore, charged with the enforcement of the Selective Service Regulations governing selected men enroute to Joint Examining and Induction Station during the journey from Dedham, Mass. to Boston and return and all men included within the contingent are directed to obey his lawful orders during the journey. By Order of the Director of Selective Service, Katherine C. Jones, Local Board, Clerk, Date Dec. 9, 1953
Due to my great leadership skills we arrived safely at the Boston Army Base and I carried off my assigned responsibility very well. Naturally, this prompted a vision of myself as a born leader of military men. Yes, during my two years as a draftee I was bound to rise rapidly through the ranks. I could clearly visualize that. The physical exam at the Army base near Boston’s waterfront was held in a hall that seemed as large as an airplane hangar, and the exam itself was a source of amazement, embarrassment, and amusement. As I stood with the other draftees and volunteers during the mass physical exam, I knew that I was becoming part of a strange drama. Here I was, a very private person, standing nude with a batch of other potential soldiers, being reduced to one of many nudists soon to become one of many privates. But at that moment, before I actually entered the Army, I only knew I didn’t enjoy being bare-assed in that huge room full of bare asses. Also, I didn’t have high respect for those alleged doctors who looked like refugees from some medical school that had trouble getting its accreditation. “Spread your cheeks,” ordered the doctor with the thick glasses and the down-turned mouth. He wasn’t talking about the cheeks on either side of my face. I reached back and took one buttock in each hand and spread them as the doctor inspected my anus, and I wished I had a nice burst of gas in my bowels at that moment to let go in his face, but no such luck. “You’re okay,” he said to me and I thought, Of course I’m okay, doc. Other than my anxiety complex, my high blood pressure, my allergies, my skin sensitivities, and my sleepwalking, I’m in terrific shape to become a citizen soldier. When the physical was over and the pseudo-doctors had finished prying into my body and had proved to themselves that I was in fit condition to become an integral part of our war machine during this time of relative peace, we were told to get our clothes back on. We took our sweet time doing it because at that moment we were still civilians. And what was the big rush to do anything? We weren’t under orders yet because the oath wouldn’t be taken until “induction” day. So that was it at the Army Base. Line up. Drop your pants. Bend over. Spread your cheeks. Questions. Forms to fill out. Questions, questions, questions. Forms, forms, forms. An endless supply of them.
Certificate of Acceptability O’Connell, Thomas Frederick, Jr., 56 Belknap St., Dedham, Mass. Selective Service Number 192632368 LB# 26, Memorial Hall, Dedham, Mass. I certify that the qualifications of the above named registrant have been considered in accordance with the current regulations governing acceptance of Selective Service Registrants and that he was this date: 1. "Found fully acceptable for induction into the armed services." 9 Dec. 53, Army Base, Boston 10, Mass. Name and grade of Joint Examining and Induction Station commander: Thomas F. Burke, 1st Lt Inf
So it was back home again, and it was a while before I got the piece of paper that would change my life: On the day after my 22nd birthday, during my third month of marriage, the memo from “The President of the United States” had arrived.
Selective Service System Order to Report for Induction Feb. 12. 1954
The President of the United States To Thomas F. O’Connell, Jr., Selective Service Number 192632368 56 Belknap St., Dedham, Mass. GREETING: Having submitted yourself to a Local Board composed of your neighbors for the purpose of determining your eligibility for service in the armed forces of the United States, you are hereby ordered to report to the Local Board named above at Memorial Hall, 2nd floor, Dedham, Mass. at 7:00 a.m., on the 16th of March, 1954, for forwarding to an induction station. John T. Kiely, Member of Local Board.
On the day I was inducted, I didn’t realize that I was one of the last married draftees, and may well have been the very last married draftee with a pregnant wife. Nature had acted very promptly after Mary and I had become husband and wife. And the draft board had also acted promptly. But, as I’ve already said, it was all part of the very logical master plan I had devised, and which Mary had agreed to. Look, the idea of avoiding the draft was completely foreign to me. Also, I wasn’t your traditional draftee. I was one of an unusual breed, a “volunteer for the draft.” Before I actually entered the Army, you might have even called me an enthusiastic patriot. In those days the draft was as American as your grandmother’s apple pie, or maybe the too thick oatmeal she mixed for you in the morning for breakfast. If you were a male, and you hadn’t put in your time in the Army or another military outfit, you might as well have considered yourself a eunuch. A neuter gender. A misfit in masculine society. Thinking back on “induction day,” the phrase sounds innocent enough. According to Webster’s, “induction” means “the formality by which a civilian is inducted into military service under the provisions of a draft law.” However innocuous the word “induction” might be, I was unable to envision at that time the period of chaos, uncertainty, and mental torture I was choosing to pursue as an enlisted man in the U.S. Army. The only thing I was certain about was that I had pals in the military, and they seemed to be doing okay with it, and induction day was coming. So what was the big deal? That was that. Where would I go for basic training? I didn’t know. Where would I go after basic? There was no way of knowing. I was moving away from a life of making free choices and pretty much knowing what each day would hold. And I was entering a life of never knowing what was coming next. But hadn’t legions of other guys gone through the process without any major problems? If they could, why couldn’t I? Hey, we had our plan worked out, and it was a very logical plan. Also, the first stages of the plan were working exactly as I had plotted them out several months before. So what if the Army was a big mystery? I’d work things out, just as Mary would work out her nine months of pregnancy. Look. You conceive. You wait out the nine months. You deliver. What could be more simple? As for my two years in the Army, wasn’t that similar? You volunteer instead of waiting and wondering. You get inducted. You serve the two years and get discharged. You get the GI Bill and go back to college and finish. What could be more simple? On the morning of induction day, I was bleary-eyed from getting up while it was still dark out, and I sat there in the back seat of the Killorens’ old Studebaker, holding Mary’s hand, trying to minimize the impact of our impending separation. In those days, what an amazing faculty I had for blocking unwelcome reality from my mind. As we rode toward the draft board’s office we were both very quiet. Since I couldn’t picture what the Army would be like, I kept telling myself I’d have to go sooner or later anyhow, and why not get it over with once and for all. In addition, I truly had some very patriotic sentiments. I loved our country and I was proud to be entering the Army that helped preserve our country’s freedom. Hey, I had always treasured freedom! Especially after spending nine years in a group foster home which had seemed to me to be like a prison sentence. In 1946 I had been released from that home at age 14 so I could live with my grandmother, and since that day I had been a deeply committed believer in both personal and national freedom. “Don’t tread on me!” When her father parked the old Studebaker in front of Dedham’s Memorial Hall, I saw the mist in Mary’s eyes and then my own eyes started to fill up, but I caught myself, pretty much the same way actor Van Johnson had done in a World War Two movie. Like him, I went into my brave mode and said, “Keep your chin up, honey. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Then I had kissed her with a latent military hero’s kiss, told her heroically that I’d write her a letter every day, and I promised heroically to get home as soon as I could, depending on where they shipped yours truly, the American hero, for basic training. I took my small brown canvas bag full of toilet articles and underwear and things, and I thanked Bill Killoren for the ride, said goodbye to him and Mary’s mother, and after another soft kiss from Mary, I got out of the car and started walking toward the draft board with a sort of numb feeling in my legs and a light feeling in my head. I pictured myself as a participant in a romantic military drama like Tolstoy’s War and Peace. A good slogan for me in those days would have been, “Reality is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there.” So, despite my belief that I had a logical mind, I really didn’t spend much time in reality. Instead, I chose to focus on my own illusions. My Army illusion made sense to me. I was about to serve my country, doing my duty as a citizen of a great republic. I would soon put on the uniform of a soldier in the greatest Army in the world. And I would carry out this illusion with minimum difficulty. However, my fantasy image of myself was suddenly shattered. As I turned to give another wave to Mary and the Killorens, I walked right into a parking meter. God, what a burst of pain in my chest! I grunted “Ugh.” Then I muttered “Shit” and tried to catch my breath, heroically acting as if nothing had happened at all. Isn’t that what John Wayne would have done? As I looked at the Killorens’ car, my eyes caught Mary’s misty eyes, I shrugged my shoulders in resignation, waved again, and this time as I headed toward the door to the draft board I avoided painful obstacles such as parking meters. While I climbed the steps of the old Town Hall, I tried to keep up my spirits. But as I attempted to rub away the pain in my chest, I began to have unheroic thoughts about leaving Mary after four months of wedded bliss. Did we do the right thing, agreeing that I would drop out of college the way I did, setting me up as draft bait? Well, it was our plan wasn’t it? Of course it was the right thing. “Tuck in your shirts, you men!” shouted a voice to my rear. I turned, and seeing the two bars on his shoulders, I realized he was a captain. But my reaction to his order was negative. Mind your own business, you jerk. There I was, during the earliest moments of my military service, already resisting authority even though I had volunteered for this adventure and knew I’d have to submit to superiors. Look at the power crazy expression on this guy’s face, I thought. They haven’t even sworn us in yet, and already he’s giving us orders. I don’t think this guy’s looking at himself objectively in the overall perspective of things. In the big picture, this captain’s nothing. Well, almost nothing. Actually, I’m the one who’s about to be nothing. A lowly private, that’s what I am becoming, and a private is very inferior compared to a captain. “All right, you men.” It was the captain’s voice again. “You’re about to be sworn into the Army of the United States.” My immediate reaction to his comment was one of slight anxiety because I suddenly realized that a point of no return was about to be reached. In the course of a few spoken words, I was going to leap from citizen O’Connell to Private O’Connell. And there was no going back. Not for two years. We raised our right hands for him. We repeated the oath to serve our country. We gazed at the flag. A slight mist covered my eyes. And for a brief moment I felt an emotion I still believe was a powerful burst of patriotism. Although I knew there would be many things about the Army that irritated me, I minimized them because I was confident that I’d do my best to carry out my duties. I was determined to serve my country well. “God Bless America.” The patriotism was sincere because I had been raised on patriotism as a kid during World War II. “God and country.” That was that. What other option was there? “Okay, you soldiers!” shouted a fat sergeant. “Line up your asses over here. We got some forms for you to fill out.” The captain had been polite to our group of citizens, but now we were soldiers. Line up our asses, huh? So that was the way it would be? We filled out the questionnaires, and we were told that we’d be sent to Fort Dix, New Jersey, for processing. Some would stay there for eight weeks of basic training and others would be shipped elsewhere. As the sergeant herded us toward the Greyhound bus, he told us to “move your asses fast,” so that’s what we did because fear was setting in now, and fear, I was to learn, is the Army’s favorite tool to gain obedience. When we got to the bus we found the door closed, so we stood outside shivering in the mid-March rawness near Boston Harbor. I turned up my jacket collar, plunged my hands into my pockets, and hunched up my shoulders to brace myself against the frigid wind. Then an elbow nudged my ribs. “Hey, pal, how’s it goin’?” There was a short dark body next to me, with two charcoal eyes peering up, a broad smile flashing, and a hand extended for a shake. Taking the extended hand with its strong grip, I shook it. “Hi. How’s it going?” I returned his greeting without answering his own question about how it was going. “No sweat! I'm Charlie Olivera.” “I don’t have a name now. It’s gone. I’ve become a number. U.S. five one three..." “Aw, come on, knock off the shit. What’s your goddam handle?” “Tom O'Connell.” “I wonder if we’ll end up in the same outfit at Dix. Ya know anything about the Army?” “Absolutely nothing.” “Well, guess what they call this rushin’ shit and then standin’ around out in the cold freezin’ our nuts off? ‘Hurry-and-wait.’ It’s the Army motto. Where you from?” “Dedham.” “I'm from the North Shore. Just turned twenty-two.” “Me too.” “We’re older than these kids. Do ya think maybe we’re past our prime?” “Hah. I don't think there’s such a thing as a prime, Charlie. Like I don't think there’s such a thing as normal or average or sane.” He laughed. “You're a hot shit, Tom. Hey, look, they’re openin’ the door. Somebody must have said the magic word.” “The magic word?” “Yup, the word is chickenshit. We’ll be up to our ears in it in this man’s Army.” The sergeant ordered us into the bus, and Charlie waved me toward the back, where he let me take the seat near the window. I tried to arrange my long bony legs so they’d be comfortable, but there was no way to do it. Little Charlie, who was about five foot two compared to my six feet, had no trouble with his legs. I reflected on why they designed busses for short people. I decided it was to save space, jam in more seats, and make more money. But even if they had designed the seats for people like me, I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt comfortable anyhow. Actually, I came into the world as a restless, extremely sensitive type. Yet I keep trying to be comfortable, even though I know it’s almost impossible for me. Call me restless and obsessive. That’s how I can still get, and that’s how I was much of the time back there in 1954. “We’re in the Army now,” said Charlie as he put his ten fingers together and gave his knuckles a loud crack. “I had it made at Cushing Academy for a year. Class president there. In high school I was All-Scholastic in football. Senior year, Schoolboy All-American team. Directed stage productions. Acted too. Then I had my own jazz combo and played at spots around Boston like the Hi-Hat. But finally the draft caught up with me, so here I am. How’d you hold out so long from the draft? Were you in college?” “Yup. BC.” I told him how I’d dropped out after my junior year and got a job as a construction timekeeper at the new College Town Sportswear building going up on Morrissey Boulevard in South Boston. “Then Mary and I got married, and I let Uncle Sam know I was available.” “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me, Tom. A married draftee? And a volunteer?” I showed him my wedding ring. “I'm married. I've been drafted. I’m a volunteer. Therefore, I'm a married volunteer draftee. Good logic, huh? I got a hundred percent in my logic final at BC, Charlie. Give me a little time and I’ll work up a perfect syllogism for you. I don’t want to let my Jesuit training get rusty.” “Hey, what was your major? Religion?” “Sort of. But just call me a liberal artist, Charlie.” I grinned over at him, knowing I was feeding him the retort. “Yuh, I know. A liberal bullshit artist.” We both laughed. I told him of my year of “working like a dog” at the Boston Envelope Company after high school to save up my first year’s tuition. Then he started telling me about his family. Soon it was my turn to give my usual short version of my early life, how I had “lost” my mother when I was little, and had lived in a group foster home for nine years before settling in with my grandmother and father at the age of 14. Then I gave him the quick version of how my father, while I was still in high school, had gone to Maine with his girl friend Hazel and the money Granny had earmarked for my first year of college, and proceeded to set up a motor court near the ocean in Wells while I was left to handle my own life at Granny’s house. “So I went to work in a factory for a year after high school to save up my B.C. tuition. I managed to complete three years before deciding to get married and then get my Army time over with.” “You didn’t have much of a family life, huh?” “Hey, I kicked around in temporary foster homes even when I was very little, Charlie, but once I got myself sprung loose from the group home and went to live with Granny, things weren’t so bad for me. I was pretty much on my own.” “But you had a tough deal growin’ up, pal.” “Look, Charlie, why complain? Anyhow, I don't have my crying towel with me today. The way I see it, the past is the past. It’s over and done with. I believe in living in the present with an eye on the future. But even though I asked for this Army routine, it looks like it’s gonna be rough for a free spirit like me who likes to make his own decisions.” “You don't know the half of it, pal.” He shook his head. “I know ’cause I put in some time in the National Guard. The Army’s shit for the birds.” “I think of it as a necessary evil, and plenty of other guys have put in their time, so I don’t figure it’ll be too much sweat.” He laughed. “Oh boy, you got a lot to learn, pal. Wait till you’re down there at Fort Dix thinkin’ about your bride, and they’ve gotcha doing KP and diggin’ ditches. You’ll probably snap your cap.” I shrugged. “I've had hard times before and I’ve always survived.” “Good luck to ya, Tom. I hope you survive this time, too. No shit, I really do. But not bein’ married myself I dunno how this life’s gonna grab you.” “I'm not only married, Charlie. Mary’s expecting.” “You’re gonna have a kid? And you’ve been drafted? I don't get it.” I told him about our plan based on the reality that I’d have to put in my Army time sooner or later anyhow. I told him I’d be using the GI Bill to do my Senior Year at BC when I got discharged in two years. Then I said, “Look, as shitty as the Army may be, it’s my ticket to finishing college when I get out.” “Bullshit! The Army’s your ticket to misery with a capital M.” He shook his head. “I thought married guys were out like Strout as far as the draft is concerned, and especially married guys with pregnant wives.” “If I wanted to avoid the draft, I could have, but instead I chose it!” “That's what's so crazy,” said Charlie. “Where’s your bride staying now?” I told him. Although ordinarily I resisted most direct questions about my life, this disarming little character had the ability to open me up. There was something very likable about his combination of charcoal eyes, bushy eyebrows, big nose, low forehead, and quick smile. He was a down-to-earth guy. A rugged street fighter type with a good heart. In five minutes it was like you had known him all your life. During my first few minutes with Charlie, the bus had pulled out, and we were on the road to New Jersey. It wasn’t exactly The Road to Mandalay, but there was a spirit of adventure in me, and it was the first time I would be going south of New York. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it? However, as the bus left Boston I felt an abrupt jolt of loneliness. Deep loneliness. It was masked a little bit by Charlie whose questions helped to keep my mind occupied. I told him how Mary would be staying with the Killorens in Franklin now, since we had given up our apartment in East Dedham, sold the old Dodge, and left the few furniture items we owned either at my grandmother’s place or with the Killorens. “She’ll be staying with her folks at least till next September when the baby comes. I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of her staying with them, but what can we do? Her folks aren’t exactly what you’d call easy to get along with. They gave us a really hard time when we decided to get married. You know how some people get married on a shoestring? Well, we didn't even own a shoestring. We had to put off getting married a month to pay off some of her charge accounts and get started on the right foot.” “You got no help, huh?” I replied that we had gotten less than no help, but that was okay because I was used to “foraging for myself,” an expression I told him was directly from Granny O’Connell’s lips, and I explained that “foraging for myself” seemed to be the story of my life, at least up to the present moment. Now I was foraging for me and Mary, and in September I’d be foraging for a little newcomer as well. I made light of it with Charlie, but I was scared. Yes, scared. How could I have predicted that we’d be expecting just one month after we were married? We had done nothing to prevent it, but we had assumed there’d be a little delay. Hah. No lead time for us. Marriage. Honeymoon. Pregnancy. Morning sickness. Although it was a thrill to think I’d be a father, it was also a worry. Could I handle caring for a family? Coming from a non-family, I didn’t have any idea what a real family was. How did you take care of one? How did you act as part of one? But I was always a good learner of new things, so I figured I’d learn this new thing, too. Charlie asked me how married life agreed with me, and I told him that it agreed with me to the extent of raising my weight in just a few months from a skinny 145 pounds to a more substantial 172. He chuckled and told me the Army would have me down to 145 again in a couple of months, and I felt like telling him to shut his pessimistic mouth, but I knew he was probably telling the truth. God, how I loved that extra 27 pounds I had put on. Yes, marriage had agreed with me, and from skin-and-bones I had been transformed into the size person I had always dreamed of being. And now the Army was going to take it away? Damn the Army! “Army cookin’s shit for the birds,” said Charlie. He explained that he had tasted more than enough of it in the National Guard, which had better food than the Army’s. “What I mean, Tom, is it’s sort of like the local greasy spoon being better than Joe and Nemo’s hot dog joint in Scollay Square.” I told him I wasn't a fussy eater, and that nothing could have been worse than my grandmother’s cooking anyhow, even the Army food. Then he asked me about Mary’s cooking, and I told him it must be good if it had put 27 pounds on me in four months. “Yup, Mary’s really coming along in the cooking department.” I grinned. “There are still a couple of burnt pans out in the back yard behind where we used to live, filled with snow and ice, but when the spring thaw comes pretty soon they’ll be nice and clean and somebody will find them and use them again.” “So she burns stuff, huh?” “Doesn’t every new bride?” “How would I know? I’m not married, and I’m in no hurry for it either, pal.” “To each his own.” That was my basic philosophy of life then, and I guess when you get right down to it, it’s still a strong aspect of my philosophy. Do what you want to do as long as you don’t screw someone else up when you’re doing it, and as long as you don’t expect me to do exactly the same thing you do, and as long as you don’t expect me to praise you for doing something I think is pretty ridiculous or immoral. However, as life has unfolded, I have periodically swerved away from my basic detachment and moved into another more active mindset. Every so often I’ve been apt to go on a crusade for one idea or another that I was totally certain about. Well, the Greyhound bus bounced along, and the talk got back to school, and Charlie asked me how come if I was so hard up I managed to go to such a highly rated school as BC. I told him I was willing to make sacrifices for things that meant a lot to me, and that I’d always had an obsession in my brain about going to BC. “After all, Charlie, I only applied for admission there and no place else. I think I'm subject to obsessions.” I chuckled. “When I get my mind on a thing it’s awful hard for me to get off it.” He said he knew what I meant because he was a little that way himself about sports, music, and women. To make him feel that I didn’t think I was a big shot, I told him, “BC’s not as highfalutin as you think. A lot of regular guys go there. Most of us commute every day and hardly anyone lives in the dorms. Actually, we used to call it the poor man’s Harvard, but I don’t think over at Harvard they call themselves the rich man’s BC, right?” “Right...with a pencil. The way you been talkin’, sounds like you always do exactly whatcha want to do, Tom.” “Why not? It's still a free country, right? I think if a guy puts his mind to something, he can do just about anything.” Somehow this trend of conversation got me talking about the decisions Mary and I had made together, and how we were going through with them no matter what anybody said or thought. I told him how we agreed on just about everything, seldom argued, and never even swore when we were together. “What the hell ya tryin’ to do? Get yourselves canonized as living saints?” “Nope. We just have a good effect on each other, that’s all. Once we got together I put a lot of my wise-guy language and habits behind me.” “I suppose you go to church every Sunday too.” “That’s my business.” “Well, I'm one of those Christmas and Easter Catholics.” “To each his own, Charlie. Chacun a son gout. Every man to his own taste. I don't care if you never go to church. It’s your problem, not mine. Hah. You know what my grandmother would call you? A lukewarm Catholic.” “She sounds like a real hot shit.” “She's in a class by herself. If she isn’t nagging or complaining, she’s praying. But where I was raised in Norwood, and even in some parts of Dedham too, there weren’t many Protestants, and we were told there were only two kinds of people in the world, Irish Catholics and those who wished they were.” He laughed. “Where does that leave us Portuguese?” “About halfway up Shit Creek with half a paddle, I guess. If my grandmother met you, she’d probably say he’s all right, the little Olivera fella, for a Portuguese.” “Big deal.” He told me about his family, and their prejudices, and that when he had started getting serious with his steady girl, they had a fit because of her Scandinavian background. This led to an exchange of photos, and we complimented each other on our taste in women. Then he asked if Mary would be coming down to Fort Dix on the coming Sunday for visiting hours. I told him I didn’t know about the visiting hours, or anything else about the Army, for that matter. He pledged to be my personal tour guide, and said he had visited Dix to see some pals the year before, and he knew the place pretty well. He also said he knew all about “bugging out.” “What the hell is that?” “That's when you screw outta somethin’ the Army expects you to do.” “And if you get caught?” “You get shafted, what else?” I told him I planned to do what I was told to do, and he could spare me the lessons in bugging out. “Look, I just want to put in my time, stay out of trouble, get out with the GI Bill of Rights in two years, go back to BC and finish college, and that’s that. The last thing I want to do is shaft myself trying to buck the system.” “You're gonna go gung-ho all the way, huh? Well, you'll change your tune pretty fast after we hit Fort Dix. When you do, just stick with Charlie, and we’ll make the Army work for us instead of us workin’ for the Army.” I got a kick out of his attitude, and figuring there was no point in arguing with him, I just said, “Mm. Right, Charlie.” At Mrs. White’s group foster home I had learned how to get along with strong minded, opinionated people. One of the best methods was silence. I turned my attention to the passing landscape, but Charlie continued to talk until he finally got my hint, and we went into a period of silence and rest. The alternating periods of silence and conversation filled the nine hours it took the Greyhound to carry us the 350 miles or so to our destination near Newark, New Jersey. During the rest periods, thoughts of my life with Mary kept popping into my mind. Lounging around after supper at night. Listening to music together. Reading. Talking. Going to bed together. Creating our own private world. Wedded bliss. Nice conversation. Good food. Peace of mind. God, what a couple we made. And we were sure that nobody else in the world could possibly be in love as much as we were. Love? I had never really known what it could be until Mary. Then it had been all-consuming. Yet as we bounced along the highway en route to Fort Dix, it was too soon for me to get the full impact of separation from my wife. After all, I had been with her that very morning. So I hadn't spent a full day away from her, and couldn't imagine how twenty-four hours of separation would be. Well, I was soon to find out.
It was after midnight when the bus passed through the Main Gate of Fort Dix, and my eyes were about halfway open. When we entered the Reception Center, the driver braked to a stop, and my eyes opened wider, although I was still groggy. Charlie was in a similar twilight state of mind. A husky sergeant politely invited us to leave the bus. “Get your fucked-up asses in line, and shag ass outta this here bus, and follow me.” So this was the Reception Center. Like many Army phrases and names, “Reception Center” had a nice ring to it. You could almost picture yourself being welcomed with open arms, like someone coming home from a long trip. But the name and the reality were two different things, like many other experiences in life that seem one way at first and then turn out to be quite another. We were herded by the sergeant into a large bare hall, with hard oak folding chairs to sit on. There must have been nearly a thousand new soldiers there in that drafty hall and as the sergeant verbally pushed us along toward some seats in the rear, he did his best to explain to us what our status was. “There ain't nothin’ lower on the face of this mother-fuckin’ earth than a private E-one in this man's Army. In other words, you guys ain’t nothin’ but shit, and don’t none of yez forget it.” The same sergeant then went to the front of the room, stood behind a large oak table, and announced to the whole group, “Now we're gonna give you cruddy fuckin’ private E-one's an orientatin’ so’s you’ll know where your asses are at in this here Army. Durin’ the next few days youse guys are gonna get processed, and this here is the official welcome from the Commanding Officer.” He picked up a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard, and began to read a canned lecture to us. Meanwhile, the word “processed” had triggered Charlie's imagination. “Hey, they’re gonna process us, for Christ’s sake, just like sardines.” I nodded my sleepy head.“Yuh, I’m beginning to feel like a canned fish.” The sergeant's voice boomed out.“Knock off the fuckin’ talkin’ down back, or your asses are gonna be mine!” We knocked off the talk, and the sergeant went on with his canned lecture, aimed at those of us who were about to be processed like sardines. The message he read to us was also given to us in print, along with the time of religious services, office hours of the chaplains, and information about the Sunday visiting hours.
HEADQUARTERS RECEPTION STATION 1299th ASU Fort Dix, New Jersey I wish to express my sincere welcome to the new life upon which you are about to embark. You have come from all walks of life, and it is through the training and conditioning that you are about to receive that you will emerge a man among men, a man of whom your family and dear ones will be justly proud. You are now serving the greatest nation in history, and that nation is proud to receive you as a soldier in the Army of the United States. --H.R. Moore, Colonel, Commanding
When the sergeant gave us the Commanding Officer's greetings, his enunciation was very effective, and I remember that as I listened to the words and tried to believe in them, I got a little mist in my eyes as I put myself into the context of a citizen patriot who had volunteered for the draft and was about to serve his country well. To this day, I tend to do the same thing at flag raising ceremonies. One minute I can be cursing what’s going on in this country, and then they start the “I Pledge Allegiance....” and I relate to it, and it’s like I’m a kid again, a true believer in this nation and all the good things it stands for. So I listened to the husky sergeant, and I absorbed the words, while in my mind I think I pictured a benevolent Commanding Officer who would offset the crassness of the sergeant who was his representative and canned speech reader. The sergeant continued: “Now we're gonna explain to you mother-fuckin’ private E-one’s this here Personal Conduct Manual and Soldier’s Guide.” He held up one in each hand. Then we all got the books and were told how to use them, receiving guidance page by page until it was after midnight. Afterward our tired bodies were lined up for a “partial issue” of Army clothing, and finally we were marched to our barracks in B Company by a tall, lean, colored [as we said in those days] sergeant whose neatly pressed and starched fatigue uniform was topped off with a well-buffed glossy helmet liner. The name “CAREW” was stenciled in white on the shiny olive drab surface of the liner. The “fatigue” uniform was very aptly named, as I soon learned. When you were wearing it you tended to be overworked. You didn’t see many dress uniforms around the Reception Center, but you did see neatly pressed and starched work uniforms on non-commissioned officers, and you noticed that they were faded. I assume that all new recruits were aptly called “green recruits” because they had the darkest green uniforms. On the other hand, maybe we were like green apples who were not ripe yet. At any rate, the more faded your uniform was, the longer you had been in the Army, and that was a status symbol of sorts, like the faded blue jeans of the modern younger generation. However, in the Army nobody ever thought of purposely fading a fabric. It just happened in the natural course of events. Sergeant Carew feigned politeness as he ushered us into the barracks. “Be it ever so humble, gentlemens, there just ain’t never no place like home.” He was referring to the long since condemned wooden structures of the Reception Center which had been set up as temporary buildings before the second World War, and somehow had never been torn down and replaced. Inside they had open studding, no plaster, and no insulation. I guess Charlie thought Carew was trying to be friendly, and he slapped the sergeant on the back. “You said it, Sarge. This is one helluva home, right?” Charlie laughed. But Sergeant Carew was not amused. Not by a long shot. His dark face seemed to gain a tinge of red, and his eyes widened and whitened as he glared at Charlie and growled, “Yore ass is mine, little soldier!” “Huh?” Charlie was taken off guard. “Yore ass is mine, man. You don’t call yore sergeant Sarge and you don’t slap yore sergeant on his back no time, and sure as the good Lord above made hairy asses, yore gonna learn to call me Sergeant, little soldier.” Charlie nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” The sudden formality on Charlie’s part didn't change anything. Carew pointed to the floor. “Drop down and give me a quick twenty-five, little soldier.” I rapidly realized that meant 25 push-ups without stopping for a breath. Charlie, who was in excellent physical shape, did them easily. When he was up to about twenty, and not even panting, a loud voice rang out from my right. “Hey, ain’t that somethin’? Look at the little guy knock off them push-ups. Hey, go man, go!” In a moment that outspoken recruit found himself on the floor next to my buddy, doing ten more push-ups than Charlie. I was quickly getting a few clear messages about the ways of the Army. When Charlie was done he came over to me and whispered, “Didn’t I tell ya the goddam Army was chickenshit?” I nodded, but didn’t answer him. I was not about to become Sergeant Carew’s next victim. Not if I could help it. And I wasn’t the only recruit who had absorbed the sergeant’s clear message. The assembly of new soldiers became very quiet while Carew instructed us on the fine art of bunk making, and the delicate procedure of spit-shining our combat boots. By the time we were able to get ready for bed, it was around 1 a.m. Because our last names both began with “O” the two of us were destined to be located next to each other in most of our activities, unless another recruit with an “O” came in between us. It was an alphabetized Army. Tired? I think numb is a better word. I took the lower bunk, and Charlie took the upper. I explained that I was a sleepwalker from time to time, and to avoid my stepping on his face in the middle of the night he would be wise to take the upper. He accepted my logic, but not without telling me I probably could have avoided the draft if I had told them I sleepwalked. I reminded him that the draft was a necessary evil for me and that I had no interest in avoiding it. “...and besides, I’ll need the GI Bill to finish BC when I get out.” “Fuck the GI Bill.” I had a retort, but I kept it to myself. My off-color days had stopped when I had become engaged to Mary. Well, for the most part they had. The off-color thoughts still arrived uninvited, but I tried not to act on them. I didn’t appreciate Charlie’s remark, and I also didn’t appreciate the way he had lowered his vocabulary to include the Army’s favorite all-purpose word. I noticed that he hadn’t used it on the bus, but now things were different apparently. He was opting for the lowest common denominator. Well, damned if I’d let the Army corrupt me and my language. The construction timekeeper’s job hadn't done it, and the U.S. Army wasn’t going to do it either. I might say “hell” and “damn” and “shit”, but not “fuck.” As I lay there on my back on the bunk, my eyes closed without any help from my conscious mind, and I was about to sink into oblivion when a raucous voice echoed from the other end of the barracks. “Hey, how’d that Personal Conduct Manual grab you, huh? Like the part about us respectin’ the men under us? Shit, we’re down so low there’s nothin’ but dirt under us, for shit’s sake.” The barracks filled with laughter. “And did you get that part about most great leaders being courteous and kind? Ho-ho-ho. Like the sarge sayin’ our asses were gonna be his.” More laughter. “The part I liked best was when they gave the instructions about how you’re supposed to hold a spoon. Hold it just like you’d hold a pen or a pencil, it said. Remember?” The laughter continued. The sarcastic recruit had zeroed in on the realities of the Army right away, and my pal Charlie was not about to go silent at such a time. “If ya don't know how to hold onto a goddam pen, I guess you’re shit outta luck when it comes to holdin’ a spoon!” Everyone laughed, and the banter went on for a while, getting more and more ridiculous, and finally the exhaustion caught up with us. As the noisy coal-fed, hot air heating system belched its uneven warmth into the drafty, uninsulated barracks, our bodies began to seek sleep, and the noise and talk came to a halt. Then a moment later, the first major twinge came. The first big tug. The inner pain. The awareness. The harsh reality. The loneliness. It came when I turned over on my side sleepily and reached out for her. Yes, I reached out for Mary. Do you think that’s strange? After all, I’d been reaching out for her in that double bed of ours for four months, night after night. Do you think my psyche was supposed to suddenly forget to trigger a habitual action that had risen to the level of sacred ritual? So I reached out for her, and I found myself clutching at nothing but air. Then I opened my sleepy eyes and I became all too aware that the spirit of Mary was there with me, but her physical form was at the Killorens’ house in Franklin, Massachusetts. God, did I feel alone there in my army bunk with its hard mattress and flat springs. I felt more alone than I could have imagined. Why hadn't I anticipated it? Because we avoid unpleasant personal forecasts, and even the most pessimistic of us try to shield ourselves from harsh truths. Hell, we can cope with each situation as it comes along, right? Wrong! Mary, I don’t know how I’m gonna handle this without you. I don’t know how I can.... I suddenly remembered the letter I had promised to write every day to her, and I tried to get up to a sitting position, but my body was interested only in the prone posture. So I slumped back again and saw her face there in my closed eyes, and I said to her, Mary, I’m so bushed I don’t think I could even hold a pen in my hand, never mind press it against a piece of paper. Forgive me for not writing tonight, but tomorrow’s my first full day in the Army anyhow, so I’ll write tomorrow, and every day after that. I love you, Mary. What a girl you are. Even with all the morning sickness you never moan and groan, and now that your blood pressure’s up you don’t let it dampen your spirits. I wish you were with me so the Army wouldn’t get on my nerves so much. But I’m getting a loud, clear message already. Without you, this Army’s gonna be hell. I need you, Mary. I feel so incredibly alone!
Letter. Wed., March 17, 1954 We got to sleep about 1:00 a.m. because of the noise made by various loudmouths. At 3:15, 2-1/4 hours later, they woke up the bunch of us who were dead tired after the long bus trip, and since 3 a.m. till now we’ve been moving around in a ‘scurry and wait’ manner. We got all our uniforms, etc. today - perfect fits! I am very fatigued, mostly from the long periods of standing around. Actually, it was one long day since yesterday when I left at 5:30 a.m. from your house....I have missed you unbearably. Any minute they are going to drag us out of the barracks and God knows what time we will get to bed tonight. If I get the sleep I’ll be okay, but it was a hell of a first day. The food is awful, compared to your cooking, and it will take me a while to get used to it....Everybody here is in the same boat. Nobody likes the Army. I won’t go into too much detail because I am so prejudiced after my first taste of the Army. Actually, basic has the same effect on everybody. And this processing period is a frustrating thing. Nobody knows anything about the future during this period of a week or so...I’m just living on rumors. Don’t be demoralized by this letter. I’m adjusting myself slowly. All I want in life is to be close to you and to have a nice home for our children. Nothing else matters, darling....Now, just the thought of you makes me happy. I pray fervently that you will be able to come with me after basic. I can’t live without you near me, even now. I only pray for the strength to endure your absence. Nobody in the world can possibly know how much I miss you and how much I love you. |
