Two years and nine months ago I entered the Army at Ft. Dix. I remember wearing a crew cut and sneakers, as a 17 year old high school dropout. I promised my Dad that I would obtain a GED and come home honorably. With promises fulfilled, I prepared to come home, one month before my 20th birthday.
My holding barracks was two doors down from the exact location where I first slept in this man’s army. I ventured to that very first barracks that evening. The young recruits still occupied the building. I sat with a few men my age. Humbly, I explained that I had just rotated back. I had one brief piece of advice, “Gentleman, the training will keep you alive. You will most likely make use of it. Please stake your life on what you will learn.” I think my tone established their interest. For almost three years I held the mission to save lives. Perhaps that conversation saved one of those young men from a needless body bag.
After confirming that I was not reenlisting, my name was placed with those given a rapid exit strategy. I was given a brief physical. I answered questions in a manner to be discharged as soon as possible. I would go nuts if held for long in a holding barracks.
They issued me a Class A uniform. All was well until they asked me about shoes. I said, “Paratroopers do not wear shoes.” The supply man asked, “Were you a paratrooper?” I replied, “Give me my God damned jump boots!” I walked out of there with my Class A dress uniform…wearing a pair of boots.
Currahees…I never saw so many hundred dollar bills before, that were placed in my hand. I boarded the bus for home.