In February 1967 I received the dreaded yellow draft notice from the US government requiring me to report for a draft physical in March. I was about to turn 19 years old. Take a moment to remember who you were at that age, your beliefs, hopes, and dreams and all the things you held important in your life.
My brother, Mike, instructed me to immediately go to the Army recruitment office and request a written guarantee for the training school of my choice. He felt that was my best chance of staying off the front lines in Nam. The reason being that I had spent the last two years of high school working at night at St. Thomas Catholic Hospital as an orderly. He knew that if I allowed myself to be drafted without a school, I would be shuffled off to medic training and sent to the front lines with a red cross on the front of my helmet for target practice by Charlie. Their procedure was to shoot the Second Lieutenant, or whoever was in command by their insignia, then the radioman so he could not radio for help, then the medic so he couldn’t patch up the first two. The life expectancy of a medic in a firefight was about 30 seconds.
So off I went to the recruitment office. The Sargent was elated when I told him I was there to enlist because I wanted to go to Vietnam to help save Vietnam from the Vietnamese. He said, “You are our man, sign right here”. I told him I wanted to get a written guarantee for the training school of my choice. He said, I didn’t need that, just sign here and I would get the training of my choice afterward – crock!
Reluctantly, he provided the largest bound book I had ever seen, listing pages of job training schools for the entire military. I carefully perused it looking for job descriptions that would allow me to use my previous medical training while keeping me from the front lines with a target on my head.
I applied for such schools as x-ray-technician, lab technician, and one called social work/psychology specialist. I had no clue what it really meant, but figured it would keep me off the front lines, unless I found myself jumping out of a plane with some gun-ho Airborne-all-the-way Green Beret/Special Forces guy, asking him on the way down, “just what happened during your early-childhood that made you want to jump out of a plane that you know damn well is going to land”.
In early May, I received a call from the recruiting officer that my written guarantee was in and to report for enlistment. When I arrived he handed me a piece of paper with Accepted for the school for Social Work/Psychology Specialist. It seemed pretty safe at the time since I didn’t have much choice left with having to report for my draft physical in a couple of weeks. I signed on the dotted line.
I then asked him what I was supposed to do about the physical in Cleveland coming up? He turned beet red as he said, you bastard, I could have had you before if you had told me that. He was furious that I had enlisted for three years instead of the mandatory two years by being drafted. Go figure. So he says, just report for your physical and show them this enlistment notice.
When I arrived in Cleveland for my draft physical, I had an eye-opener. First, I found out I am color blind. They stood me on a line and told me to cover one eye and tell them the number appearing on the screen. All I saw was colored dots and no number. When I told the medic I didn’t see any number, he said 17, cover your other eye and tell me the number you see. Again, I said there was no number. He said 7, pass, next! In other words, color blindness did not keep one out of the Army.
After peeing in a bottle, having a guy grab my balls and ordering me to cough, and being totally stripped of my identity, shades of things to come, I watched as hundreds of guys who had arrived there that day, not knowing what was going to happen, being told; you are Navy, step over there, You are Marine, step over there, You are Army, step over there and You are Airforce, step over there. They had no idea they were being shipped out that day from there without time to say goodbye to family and sweethearts. Reality can be harsh!
I, on the other hand, showed them my enlistment papers and went home, matured by the experience.
I graduated from high school on June 8, 1967, got married to Sandra Dako on June 10th, We went on a quick honeymoon to Mammoth Caves, which was all we could afford. Well, what I could afford. I covered most of the wedding costs personally. We all stood at the train station in Akron, my Mom, Dad, and Sandi on June 26th. It was the first time I saw my Mom cry as I left.
I had a sleeper-car for the ride because it took all night to go from Akron to Louisville, KY. When I arrived at Fort Knox, all I knew was that the US gold was housed there. From there, my whole world changed beyond belief. We were immediately yelled at by my some Sargent who called us all girls and that we could give our souls to God, but that our asses now belonged to the Army.
I was stripped of all identity, hair cut off, clothes taken, personal items confiscated and stored and left looking exactly like every other naked guy in skivvies. They then began to give us new identities, a green uniform, boots and a hat, and on day two, my own last name on a tag that I had to sew on my shirts. Even tho every guy had their last name on their uniform, we all had the same middle name, Fuckin! It was Fuckin Frank, get over here. Fuckin Frank, drop and give 50 push-ups because I don’t like the expression on your face.
A couple of events happened in Basic Training that are worth mentioning. One, I developed an infection in one of my molars. The swelling finally got so bad my eye was beginning to close. I was “allowed” to walk to the base dental office, where two medics held me down, while another yanked the tooth out. There was so much pus, any Novocaine would not take effect. Ouch!
The second was more complicated. During PT (Physical Training,- two hours a day), I passed out and collapsed. Upon awakening, I was told to “walk” to the dispensary to see a doctor. I remember walking down the road, not knowing exactly where I was supposed to go, when this jeep came along-side me and a guy said, you alright? I was staggering from the heat, July in Kentucky, and the fever. Upon arrival, they decided that I might have an appendicitis by sticking their finger up my ass to see if it hurt. They also pressed on my lower right quadrant to see if there was pain upon releasing their pressure. Both hurt like hell! I was taken by jeep to the hospital, where they repeated the procedures and determined that yes, I had an Appendicitis and scheduled me for immediate surgery.
I remember telling them that I did not want to worry my Mom by letting her know I was going into surgery. I figured it was better to say, Mom, I am out of surgery and doing fine. I recall them getting me out of the recovery room bed to walk to the phone while holding onto the IV pole to talk to my Mom. Humorously, I remember saying yes Mam to my mother as I had been commanded to by the military to speak to any female officer.
Story short, I spent three weeks in the hospital, having contracted serious pneumonia following surgery. Sandi and brother Mike came to visit me in the hospital. The result was I had to repeat Basic Training all over again due to being absent for three weeks. UGH! Normally, guys who cannot pass the final rugged tests for Basic Training are called Recycles. Due to the event, I was classified as a Recycle. Further embarrassment.
The bottom picture is me after three weeks in the hospital, having lost about 35 pounds. Not good!
One of the first things I learned in the military is that when you think you know what is going on, you don’t have a clue to what is going on.