CHAPTER 2-EAT'N GET OUT!| In March of 1967 my Mom and I rode over to the El Centro
recruiter's office with Mr. Shyler, my probation officer. We didn't
own a car then and, even if we did, my mom didn't know how to drive, nor
did she have a driver's license. So, if we had any kind of running
around to do, such as getting over to El Centro, which was the County seat,
we would usually have to ask someone for a ride, offering to pay $5.00
for gas, or ride the Greyhound, or, as in this case, ask the probation
officer to take us the 18 miles over to the El Centro Post Office Building.
The recruiter's office was in the basement. I expected to be the only person there, but was to find out that I was but one of about fifteen guys there to take the Basic Aptitude Test (BAT) for I.Q. levels. We talked about what I planned to be trained for on the ride over. I decided I would like to become an X-ray technician. This seemed to fit well for me, because my mother was a Nurses, Aid and I had spent a lot of time around hospitals, either going to work with Mom when I would have problems with my sitter, or just going over with her to pick up her check on pay day. I liked the feel of hospitals and the dedication of the people who worked there, so I figured this would be a good career and, what the hell, it was free training. No sooner was I before the recruiter when my plans were shot down. " Well, Robert, since you're going to be a volunteer, you have your choice of fields for training. What would you like to be?" "Well, I was thinking about being an X-ray Technician," and explained my reasons for a medical field. "Hmm," he said, while looking over my school records. He looked up at me, then over to my Mom who was sitting next to me, "Hmmhmm." He gave us a frown, then a sly sort of smile, the kind of smile one gives when they know they have you over a barrel regardless of what you might want. He said, "You know, Robert, the training you want requires a high school diploma. We can offer another medical field, such as a medic, but you would have to score pretty high on your Basic Aptitude Test. You would then be able to get a job as an orderly in most hospitals after your discharge." So I asked my Mom what she thought. "Well, Robbie, you would be working in a hospital, you wouldn't make as much money as an X-ray technician. But the experience would let you move up, or train in other fields." This sounded very logical to me. So the papers were signed by my Mom and me to enter the Army for three years upon my 17th Birthday on May 28, 1967. I remember one of the last questions my mom sheepishly asked before she gave her consent. "If I sign this, will Robbie have to go to Viet-Nam?" The recruiter, a Sergeant First Class, wearing his class A uniform, with all kinds of ribbons and qualification badges, along with a 1st Cavalry Division Patch on his right shoulder signifying he had been to Vietnam (all this was meaningless to me other than the fact that it all looked quite impressive) looked at my mom and seriously said, "Robert is only 17 and the Army won't send anyone to Viet-Nam before age 18. By the time he reaches that age he will be either in Europe or permanently located in the States somewhere. And besides, we are going to try and get him trained in a field where he would not get hurt if he did go to Nam." This was the first time I heard the phase "Nam." He then went on, glancing back and forth from Mom to me. "Almost all the guys being sent to Nam are draftees, or volunteer to go. So I wouldn't be concerned over that." His answer seemed to ease my Moms' mind. I was thinking to myself while the Sergeant gave his answer, "Why did she ask him that? Maybe she might feel guilty signing me up to be sent to war and possibly killed, just because I didn't get along with the school district. What a load that must have taken off her mind. She then looked over at me and said, "Are you sure this is what you want to do?" I thought to myself, what else is there? Brawley was dead to me. The whole scene was getting boring, and the change was something I was kind of looking forward to. I had thoughts of coming home to Brawley with all those ribbons and a uniform and everyone would look at me like I was somebody, instead of a kid from the poor side of town with nothing better to do than hang out in the streets and wind up in trouble. So my answer was just a simple "Yes." Mom then signed the enlistment papers while the recruiter sighed and seemed a little perturbed by the fact that we were taking his time. I tested that day. A test that was sort of like a G.E.D. exam. Those of us that were not being drafted or were to report at a later date were told that we would be notified of our test results and when to report to the induction station in Los Angeles. A week before my 17th birthday I received a letter from the recruiter telling me to come over to his office in El Centro to pick up my bus tickets to L.A. and my enlistment packet. I rode over to El Centro on the Greyhound bus and walked the few short blocks to his office. By now I was pretty excited about going. I had bragged to all my friends that in three short years I would have a good job and didn't need "No Goddamn high school" to get there, never suspecting the suffering and humiliating experiences I was about to encounter. The same recruiter, Sgt. Morse, was sitting at his desk when I walked in. I expected him to recognize me, not realizing that he saw young, long haired misfits like me daily and didn't know me from the last idiot that just left there. "What can I do for you? . I pulled out the letter I received the day before and said, "I got this letter to come over and pick up some tickets." This perked him up as he read the letter. Then pulling my "packet" from a box on the floor next to his desk he stood and said very gruffly, in a sergeant's voice. "YOU WILL REPORT TO THE LOS ANGELES INDUCTION CENTER MONDAY MORNING AT 0500 HRS. INSIDE THIS ENVELOPE YOU WILL FIND A ROUND TRIP TICKET TO L.A. ALONG WITH AN OVERNIGHT VOUCHER FOR A ROOM AT THE DOWNTOWN HOTEL. YOU WILL ALSO FIND A MAP FROM THE BUS DEPOT TO THE HOTEL AND DIRECTIONS ON HOW TO GET TO THE ARMED FORCES ENTRANCE AND EXAMINATION STATION FROM THERE. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD? I was taken back! This man's whole attitude had changed drastically from the day I came over with my mother. I found myself cowering before him and I was so surprised that I didn't really follow a word he had said. I picked up bits and pieces. I knew I was getting some bus tickets to L.A. was being provided a room and was to report to some station for some more testing. I just answered with my head pointing down to the ground. "Yes." "YES SERGEANT," he snapped back. "You better get used to answering in that way, and SPEAK UP! You better get over and check the bus schedule. Good luck soldier." His demeanor had subsided somewhat at this point, and I was feeling a little less intimidated. As I rose to walk out the door, I saw the reason for his attitude change back to that nice guy from a few weeks before. There walking in with his mom was another long haired, scruffy looking kid seeking his ticket out of California's great Imperial Valley. I arrived in Los Angeles the day before I was to report to the Armed Forces Entrance and Examination Station (better remembered as the AFEES Building) and followed the map over to the Downtown Hotel, which was a few blocks away from the Greyhound bus depot. I had been to L.A. before with my family. We would ride the bus to visit with my Aunt and Uncle who lived in Newhall. I always thought these visits were just that, but found out many years later that most visits were because my mom could not afford or find a place for all us of kids, so Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Eldie would take us in for a while until she could get back on her feet. The Greyhound bus depot in L.A. was usually a bus change for us and we would spend up to an hour there sometimes, waiting for the bus to Newhall. Coming from a small town, L.A. held me in awe. My earliest memory was of standing on the corner outside the depot in awe of the traffic, the people, the skyscrapers, and the elevated trains. This was in the early 50's when the commuter train lines still ran. The noise of this giant city had me riveted in place. This is where my Mom found me after frantically searching the depot for me, as I had wandered off in wonderment. I was probably no older than six or seven years old, but I'll never forget the first time I stepped into that city. At seventeen I was still in awe. My mom wasn't there to tell me to stay close and I didn't have to make connections on another bus. This is where I was headed so I wandered around the bus depot for a couple of hours just watching the buses and the different people come and go. I finally got over to the hotel in the evening. As I walked into the lobby itseemed to be full of young guys like myself. I found out that this hotel was contracted by the government to house inductees before going over to the AFEES building. I was given two meal vouchers-one for dinner and one for breakfast. I was to share my room with two other guys who were there for the same reason as me, to be inducted into military service, although not necessarily into the Army. The hotel clerk informed me that we would be awakened at 4:00 A.M. and I was to report to the AFEES building. at 5:00 A.M. For the life of me I couldn't figure out why we had to be awakened so early. The only time I had been up that early was when I was staying out all night with my friends. And I was usually going to bed shortly after that. After all we were just going over to take a physical and a few tests. The phone call came at 4:00 A.M. I didn't have any intention of waking up that early, but the other two guys in the room with me prodded me until I woke up. They were older guys, college dropouts about to be drafted. Needless to say the breakfast voucher didn't do me any good. By the time I got dressed and out the door I had about twenty minutes to get to the AFEES Building. I had walked over there the day before and knew that it would take the full twenty minutes to get there. Remembering the change in the recruiters attitude, I did not want to be late. It was strange walking down the streets of L.A. at 4:30 in the morning along with about sixty or so other guys. We arrived at the AFEES building and, upon entering, saw total pandemonium and confusion. Directly inside the front door was a table with several corporals and sergeants. There were Army, Marines, Navy, Air Force, all the represented Armed Forces, one more intimidating than the next. It seemed like one was trying to out-do the other for being a mean S.O.B. It was just like the first time I saw L.A. all over again. I was awe struck, riveted in place by the fear these men were instilling into me. One of the sergeants snapped me out of my stupor yelling, "WHERE'S YOUR PACKET SOLDIER?" "Me?" I meekly answered. "NO THAT GODDAMN LADY BEHIND YOU!" I quickly handed him my packet, and while waiting, I glanced at the lady behind me, who turned out to be a man with a full beard, hair down to his waist, and dressed in the weirdest get up I had ever seen. This was my first close up look at a hippie, not counting the ones I had seen on the news. I thought I had long hair, which was just touching my shoulders, but this guy took the cake. Shaken from my awestruck stupor I looked around to see that this place was full of guys who looked just like him. "GET YOUR ASS IN THE RIGHT LINE, YOU DUMB SHIT!" The Sergeant threw my packet back at me and pointed to the placards above each one of the sergeants processing us. A-F, G-K, L-Q, R-V, W-Z. I was in the L-Q line. As I gathered my thoughts and moved to the proper line I was embarrassed by the snickers coming from the other inductees. This place was hell. We were herded around like cattle following different colored lines to our next destination. My first indication of the unusual way the military is run was the way we had to fill out each form. Last name first, first name, middle initial last. The first time we were told to fill out a form the Sergeant yelled those instruction as fast as he could, no pauses just, "LASTNAMEFIRSTFIRSTNAMEMIDDLEINITIALLAST!" We all just stared at each other with a dumb "What did he say?, look on our face. They knew it would have that effect on us, which gave them even more excuses to yell at us. Also, dates are written differently. Instead of Month, Day, Year, in the military it is Day, Month, Year. No one knows why, nor did anyone bother to ask. We were herded into rooms for more tests-aptitude, psychological, you name it. Finally, we were herded down a line to a locker room and were told to strip down to our underwear and socks, which was kind of funny to me, because a lot of these hippies that were there weren't wearing underwear, much less socks. That's how I found out where the phrase "ladies" came from because, if you weren't wearing underwear, you had to wear a hospital gown all day. The physical was typical military, including the part where our rectum and scrotum were checked. Up until this inspection it was pretty much one-on-one with a physician. But, all of a sudden, we were taken into a large room for the final humiliation. We were told to form a circle. After which we were told to drop our shorts for "short arm inspection." Here we were, one hundred or so guys standing in a circle facing each other while a doctor came around to each one of us. I watched this humiliating experience and dreaded my turn. I was thinking how much the Doctor looked like Edward G. Robinson. He was short, squatty, and had a German accent. When he got to me, he stuck a tongue depressor down my throat. "Say ah." "Ahhh." He threw the tongue depressor into a can being carried by an orderly who was following him around. He then put his left hand on my right shoulder and grabbed my balls with his gloved right hand wiggling them in his palm momentarily and then, with his forefinger and middle finger, he shoved my balls up into my stomach. "Turn your head to the left and cough." "What," I said standing on my tip toes trying to get away from the pain of his fingers cramming my nuts into my stomach. "Turn your head and cough, Goddamn it!" "Cough, cough," my balls shot back down into their sacks. The doctor mumbled something to the orderly and moved onto the next guy in the circle, not even bothering putting on a new glove. I had just had my first eernia inspection. I didn't have any idea why he did it and I wasn't going to complain as long as he was doing it to everyone else. Just when I thought the worst was over, we were told to stay in a circle and turn around. We were then told to bend over like we were trying to touch our toes, reach around with both hands, grab the cheeks of our ass, and spread them apart as far as we could. At first everyone hesitated like some kind of joke was being played on us. A Captain yelled out, "BEND OVER AND SPREAD YOUR CHEEKS!" "YOU PEOPLE THINK WE GOT ALL DAY HERE?" A couple of orderlies walked around and helped the few guys bend over who were still hesitating after that. "Now hold them open until I tap you on your back." The doctor walked around to each one of us and looked up our ass, mumbled something to the orderly, tapped our back and moved onto the next person. That was my first rectal exam, looking for hemorrhoids, I found out later. How humiliating! But, even through that, I couldn't help thinking about how sorry I felt for that doctor who had to handle all those balls and look up all those dirty assholes day in, day out. Because, there were some guys there who I know hadn't taken a bath in weeks, if not months. The worst was over. All that was left was a personal interview to inform us of our test and physical results. We were herded down another colored line to a large room full of chairs and were told to wait until our name was called. After about an hour I heard, "EATON, Robert O." I jumped up and walk-ran to the PFC clerk who had called out my name. "Sit down Eaton." This guy was much nicer than the other sergeants who had been hollering at us all day. I didn't realize that he was just another soldier trying to do his three years and get out like the rest of us. "Eaton, your test scores are back and, although you passed your physical, your Basic Aptitude Test scores are pretty low. To be trained as a Medic in the Army you must have a B.A.T. score of at least 98, your score is 87." I sat there wondering what he was getting at. When I didn't answer, he went on, "By law we are required to offer to release you from your commitment or you may choose another MOS (military occupational skill)." When I didn't answer he said, "what would you like to do?" I was dumbfounded. I couldn't go home without being accepted because I would be put in Juvenile Hall. In the back of my head I wanted to quit after being subjected to the first day of induction. I just shyly asked, "What do I qualify for?" "Well you can be in the infantry, artillery, a mechanic, or a cook," he said, pulling out waiver forms. I thought for a moment and decided I didn't want to get shot at and I didn't like to cook, so I decidedly said, "I'll take Mechanic" "Fine, all you have to do is sign this waiver for a change of MOS," he stated, typing away. After signing the waiver and all the other papers stating I was willing to give up three years of my life, the PFC told me something I'll never forget, which should have forewarned me of the workings of Military life from that day forward. "Your recruiter down in El Centro knew all along from that first day's testing that you weren't qualified to be a medic. I wish the recruiters would tell you guys. It would sure save a lot of paperwork, but I guess they don't want to lose their quota credit." I felt betrayed by my recruiter, Sergeant Morse. If he had told me maybe my mom could have helped me out of this mess. As it is, I was stuck here feeling like I was being pressured into taking whatever was left. All I wanted to do was just get out of that building. "O.K. Eaton that's all," the PFC said. I replied, "Am I done?" He said, "Yeah, go get on the bus." So I got up and walked out the door with my packet in my hand, heading for the Greyhound bus depot checking, to see that I still had the return half of my round trip ticket. I knew there was a 5:00 P.M. bus out of L.A. headed for Brawley, 230 miles away. I slept all the way home. |
CHAPTER 2-EAT'N GET OUT!
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