Veteran’s Day

Every morning when the sun stumbles through my bedroom window here in Barstow, my groggy brain fully expects to hear my drill sergeant yelling:

“Get up! Get out of those beds!”

Yes. that was the gentle and loving way we were roused from our cots all the way back in 1974.

I enlisted in the US Air Force in 1974 while the Vietnam War was still being waged. My older sister, who had protested in the streets to end the draft, watched in horror and despair as first one brother (Glenn) and then the other (me) actually volunteered to become cannon fodder for the incompetent military brass.

I was 17. My mother had to come with me to the induction center to sign that it was OK for me to go in. “Are you sure you want to do this, Corrie?” she asked, before signing. Yeah, mom. It’s not like I’m going to change my mind in front of all the guys. Jeeze.

Fortunately for both Glenn and I, the war was winding down and they didn’t need a SeaBee (Glenn, who was in the Navy) nor a radioman (me) to help hold down what was left of the fort in Vietnam. I have total respect for those guys and gals that did end up “in country,” as they called it.

I served four years, per my enlistment. The Air Force certainly let me see the world. First I was stationed in Turkey, which was an eye-opener. Truly a different culture. Fool that I was, I nearly asked a Turkish girl to marry me–which ended when we had a little conversation on her family’s balcony (with an old grandmother chaperoning us) about the difference between my Catholicism and her Muslim faith. We agreed that the other believed some crazy shit, shook hands, and went our separate ways. Oh, she did invite me to her wedding–she married a nice Turkish boy.

I was also stationed in San Vito, Italy. There I did not meet a voluptuous, sexy, Catholic Italian girl. Instead, I ended up marrying a fellow air force volunteer, a lovely young woman named Vicky (known in the Mark Bruce mythology as “The Sweet One.”)

My military career had no heroics. I was never in Harm’s way, other than when I took a taxi in Rome. I did my duty, wore the uniform and did my best not to embarrass myself.

I emerged from the Air Force with a hearing disability (yes, I am a disabled American Veteran), the GI Bill (which allowed me to get my lower degree), and a lot of memories, none of which would be of interest to you. But if you get a few drinks into me, I’ll tell you about them anyway.

But don’t thank me for my service. Whenever I hear someone say that, what I really hear is “Thank God it was you and not me.”

Instead, wish me a happy Veteran’s Day. That’s the one thing I did earn.