Rude Awakening, Part 2

After our physicals, we were allowed to put our new underwear on and moved on to another part of the building.

There we were measured for size and issued a complete set of military clothing and other supplies that we would need for the next few weeks of Basic Training, boots, shoes, hats, socks, more new underwear, fatigues and khaki dress uniforms.

They issued a huge duffel bag to put it all into and an additional black case that we used to put our civilian clothes in. We were then marched back to our temporary barracks. I must have been a sight, trying to carry that huge duffle bag that constantly bumped and banged on the ground because I was so short and it was so heavy.

We were marched back to get lunch.



We were marched to get all the necessary documents produced to make us official U.S. Army “property”. They gave us each a number. Each number had a prefix. Mine was “RA”, Regular Army. I didn’t take me long to find out the “RA” made me a marked person, a target. Everyone knew that it meant that I had enlisted in the Army rather than being drafted. I was to be constantly reminded of my negative RA status during the next three years.



Draftees were given the prefix of “US”. Most of the men and boys I met in basic and with whom I worked with later on, were draftees. I found, pretty much immediately, that draftees didn’t have a very high opinion of anyone who had freely enlisted in the Army.



There was one other prefix that was notably different and received as much or more attention than “RA’s” and that was “NG”, for National Guard otherwise known as “Weekend Warriors”. The drill sergeants and the other permanent party (staff) would usually put them in charge of mundane work details and generally harass them due to their National Guard affiliation.



We were marched to get name tags to wear around our necks. In the event that we were later killed they would know who we were. They stamped our names on them. They stamped our new military serial numbers on them. They stamped our blood type and they stamped our religious preference on them. They were called “Dog Tags”.

When I was asked me what my religious preference was, Catholic or Protestant, I just casually said neither. The young Private taking the information was obviously getting confused easily. “He must be a Yankee fan”, I thought to myself. (Oops, sorry Yankee fans)



I told him again that I was neither a Catholic nor a Protestant.



“Ya got to be one or t'other”, he said.



I was new to the outside world but even I knew there were other religions around. I then told him I was a Mormon.



“A what?”



“A MORMON”, I repeated.



“Never heard of that before….Ok….If you say so.”



The next day when we were marched back to get pick up our shiny new dog tags, I found that my new tags had my religious preference as “Morman”. I always laughed afterward whenever I read my tags, that appeared to announce that I was More man. I also wondered afterward how long that Private stayed a Private.

Rude Awakening

It seemed I had no sooner closed my eyes when I was suddenly awakened by what seemed to be someone screaming. Someone yelling loudly for us to get up, it was time to get up, get dressed and go to breakfast. The person yelling was another sergeant. He said he had let us “sleep in” because we had arrived so late. I checked my watch again, 6:00 AM.

We groggily got up quiet and muttering to ourselves. We quickly got dressed and trudged outside, tripping over our own feet; just a bunch of blurry eyed boys, wondering what the heck was coming next. This new sergeant had us all line up in two columns and then he gave us a little training in regard to creating a proper military formation. Once we were lined up to his satisfaction, he then marched us down the short street in front of the barracks to the nearby mess hall. Apparently, we actually had slept in. It was obvious that many people had already had been eating in the mess hall. Several were still eating and many were leaving as we arrived. I noticed something on the way in that caught my attention. It looked like a ladder mounted horizontally on posts alongside the sidewalk approaching the door into the mess hall. I wondered what it was for. I would find out in the days to come.



We started that day off with a good breakfast. Army breakfast isn’t bad. Bacon and eggs, scrambled or fried, on an oily griddle. Oh, and pancakes and sausage, orange juice and coffee or milk. We hadn't eaten in what seemed like days. Once we were done with the wonderful breakfast, we went outside. We got back into "formation" and we began to make many short trips around the nearby area on foot, to one place and then another.  We marched to the “cadences” of our temporary drill sergeant. He sang in a loud, clear voice, “I don’t know but I’ve been told,…..”.



I was to march to many variations of cadences that started with these same words in the next few weeks and years. The intent of cadences is to help soldiers to march together in rhythm and in an organized manner. As he called out the cadences, he instructed us to repeat aloud each verse. They were mostly rude and crude plays on words, filled with sexual references and innuendoes. I was honestly embarrassed to have to repeat most of them. I wasn’t impressed with them then and to be honest, I can’t remember any of them now. If I was to guess, the practice is still done to this day.



One of the first things I learned during all this marching around, here and there, was that when we got to where we were going, we had to stand and wait, and wait, and wait. I’m sure you’ve heard the old military adage, “Hurry up and wait”? Well, the Army has it down pat, kind of like they do breakfast.

We marched EVERYWHERE!


We were marched to get our first military haircut.

I sat down in the barbershop to await my turn just as a cute, good looking boy with long, brown, curly hair was getting into one of the barber chairs. He was being asked by the barber how he wanted his hair cut. The kid innocently started to answer just as the barber ran the clippers over the top of the boys head, cleaning a smooth strip right down the middle of his head, exposing his smooth, pale scalp. Everyone laughed as the rest of the kid's long hair slid off his head and onto the floor. I recall leaving the barbershop after having had my  head "sheared" and seeing every one of the new recruits “waiting” outside with their now bald heads. Their scalps actually looked blue in the morning sunlight.


We were marched to get poked and prodded, again, AGAIN! by more doctors.


I could see that there would be no personal privacy in the Army. We were being processed through in groups and were told to strip naked, to strip off all of our civilian clothes and put them in a supplied paper bag. We got to keep our civilian clothes for use later when we would get to have leave or a pass into town. My poor civilian clothes didn’t get to touch my skin for many weeks to come.



I shyly peeked around realizing I was in a room full of naked, bare butted boys. I was embarrassed and extremely self conscious of my nudity, and theirs. I had never experienced being naked with anyone except my family when I was extremely young. And of course, with my friend, David. Most kids have nude experiences in the showers at school, gym or at the “Y”. But I never had. We all stood in a row, naked, as a doctor inspected our bodies top to bottom. He walked in front of us and then behind us, giving us instructions as he went. The one moment that sticks out in my mind is when he told us all to bend over at the waist, reach behind us and spread our butt cheeks. He walked along behind us inspecting our rectums. I thought it was really odd and humiliating at the time. But now, I am quite sure I know what he was looking for. I guess he didn't see anything notable about me, well, at least on the back side.



Although I would have been curious in any other situation, I tried to not look directly at any of the other naked boys. Fearing that if they caught me looking at them, they could somehow sense who and what I really “was”. Although I really wasn't sure about my sexuality at that time and even for years to come, I felt emotionally exposed, like they could see into my mind and realize what I feared the most about myself. Eventually, I was to get used to being naked and being around naked guys, during my years in the army (I actually got to enjoy it). But, I never got over the fear, the fear of being discovered or being accused, of being a queer. Speaking of which, in those days people referred to homosexuals as queers. It was an extremely derogatory term and it brings back the memory of my fathers use of the term.  There was something inherently mean and hateful in the way people said the word “queer” back then. I remember my father saying to me and one of my close friends once that people would think we were "queer" if they saw me and my friend in our innocent horse play. I was really young at the time. I didn't really know what he meant by it, but I knew by the inflection in his voice it wasn't good. I remember it like it was yesterday. If parents only realized how words can cut a young kid's heart.



During these physical exams, one of the boys who had traveled with me from home had to be discharged from the Army after his first two days. He had had a cold when he boarded the plane and he had broken the eardrum in one of his ears during the flight. Now, he was deaf in one ear. At least he would live to tell about his short experience in the Army during the era of the Vietnam War.

A fortunate loss in my opinion.