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.
