LEAVING HOME a follow up to my Enlistment Day post

LEAVING HOME

June 16, 1958

Leaving was almost anti-climatic. Since that day back in April when I fist signed my enlistment papers, I had experienced a parade of goodbye parties, drunken nights with my friends and a shower of good wishes from my extended family. Girls I hardly knew or just met gave me wallet sized photos, their addresses and sometimes a little more than that. Even a few of my male friends insisted I write. I could only guess that having a pen pal in the Air Force was some kind of a status symbol.

My only baggage was a small gym style carry-on. Their instructions were simple. Bring enough underwear and clothes for about three days, include shaving gear, some minor toiletries, limited reading material, stationary and only the personal possessions I was not afraid of losing. Since I was a smoker, I jammed three cartons of Lucky Strikes, a lighter and a tin of lighter fluid in amongst my gear. What I did not know was that at the Base Exchange I would be able to purchase cartons of the same brand for a $1.80, the night before I paid almost twice that at our local tobacco store. Other than that, all I possessed was a wallet with $20.00, my driver's license, a clutch of photos and a now unnecessary draft card.

The night before I said goodbye to my sister and brother and this morning was my moment alone with mom. She hugged me, kissed my cheek and whispered her only words of advice.

"Don't try to be a hero. Come home alive," and that was it.

What else can a mother wish for her child? Dad was waiting for me in the car and I had to go.

"Don't worry about me mom, I'm a big boy." Her lips formed, I love you, and I walked down the three brick steps that leading from my home, along the cement walkway and paused at the picket fence gate for as moment to look back. She was gone, the door shut and my new life was about to begin, but first I drove with Dad into the city. .

He owned an antique restoration business on 51^st street in New York and as we headed towards the city, he recounted his time in the army. I guess it was his way of preparing me for the service.

After we parked the car in a garage, dad unlocked the store to allow his workers to enter. He then he escorted me to the subway and told me that he would accompany me as far as 99 Whitehall Street, the location downtown from where all draftees and enlisted men began their journey. Ninety-nine was the main military processing center in New York. It was there that I had taken my first physical and a battery of placement exams. Since World War II, millions of young men had marched naked through those cold corridors.

Now I was back to take my final physical, and my oath to God and country. From here, a dozen or so boys and I would be bussed to Idyllwild Airport and then flown to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio Texas.

Dad walked me to the door, shook my hand, gave me the warmest hug he was capable of giving and the only real warning I ever received from him about the military.

"Don't volunteer for anything."

I walked up the stairs and through the doorway of the cavernous brick building and this time, I did not look back.

I did not see my father again for three months. It was only then I learned he had remained outside of the building for over an hour hoping to catch one more glimpse of me.