I continue channeling my father by typing out the autobiography he sent to me a few years before his death. In the latest installment, he leaves the comfort of Brooklyn and heads off to boot camp.

Growing Up and Stuff: An Adventure
Part 4

It was only a few months later and there I was in the Navy, with groups of other fresh innocents straight from school and into a conflict for the love of country and the American way.

I managed to see romantic Eddy just before I left. He had gotten married and he and his wife were living in a one-room furnished apartment. They were happy and had a child on the way and were trying to scratch out a living and a life together.

I ran into Eddy years later on the streets of Manhattan. He was rushing to work in the garment district and had little time to talk, so we didn’t even exchange phone numbers.

I guess the years were taking their toll on him. He looked years older than his age and appeared stooped and of course still had a five o’clock shadow. We never did run into each other again.

I remember waking up on the day I was to report to the Navy. I wondered what I was getting into as I stood in front of a mirror combing my hair into my usual high pomp. After all, it had to be just right.

Here I was, right out of school, fresh from being one of the kids you see hanging around the local candy store or the kid that just delivered your groceries to you, all of us trying to grow up and find out what life was all about.

Next thing it’s the draft, thinking of my friends in the Army up to their crotches in mud. I went the Navy way and wound up up to my crotch in salt water.

I held the postcard in my hand, reading it slowly, making sure once again of the address of the place the Navy wanted me to report to. It was easy as pie. I go to the place, step forward, raise my hand in an oath. And follow a group of strangers onto a bus heading for a place called boot camp.

Boot camp turned out to be a very strange place. High fences and guards. As bus after bus rolled into this strange place, you stood around waiting for someone to tell you what to do.

Suddenly, my ears are filled with this loud sound. A voice is issuing a long string of commands loud enough to break the sound barrier, all of this without the aid of any electronic device … Oh, boy!

Here I am running around some sort of camp with people who all sounded funny to me when they talked. I must have sounded funny to them, since my main language was Brooklyn-ese.

The very next thing to happen was the loss of identity. We went straight to the barber where a long-practiced and deeply loved pomp hit the floor along with my pride in it.

Then out into a world of mismatched clothes. If you’ve never smelled the odor from military clothing that’s been taken out of storage, I’ll describe it to you as being very close to smelling as if something died in them a very long, long time ago, or as close to it as you could get. And remember, you have to wear this stuff.

As you finish dressing and get writers cramp from filling out every military form there is, and probably signing your firstborn child away, you’re told to walk out the door.

Now walking through this door is almost the last time you walk to anything. After that, you run to or double march for anything and everything.

To start you on this running, marching journey are two mean-looking drill instructors who are standing right outside the door, picking out at random the poor souls that will come under their individual torment for the next few months of boot camp.

They’re doing this by calling to you by your newly acquired nickname … hey, you skin head, over here. Well, it beat shit head … which came along shortly after. For a while it was just follow the guy in front of you and hope he’s doing everything right.

I remember my first breakfast in the Navy. They plopped some funny creamy looking stuff onto my tray. Some of the guys were eating this stuff up. So I thought, what the heck, and dipped my fork into this white creamy stuff which had this lumpy stuff in it. Raised the fork to my lips and froze … no way.

Well, let’s learn how to march. Hey, I’m in the Navy, what’s with this marching stuff? We soon learned! We marched just to march. We marched just because it was a hot day. We marched in the dust so our shoes wouldn’t shine … so that we could spend our time shining them. Shoes you could see you face in, clothes just so … or else you marched. You marched to remind you to do everything right. What your feet had to do with your head and thinking … I’ll never know.

Then I find myself out in front … first man, great … do something wrong and everyone does it wrong. And who’s marching next to you? The drill instructor. Mister nice guy. Shouting, yelling … doesn’t the guy have a normal voice?

Early morning, wake up … Reveille … great, you and a whole bunch of strangers rush into the bathroom. (The head, in Navy talk.) This is to do your most personal things … together. After which you can all march some place for something.

I remember classes … like … this is a gun, this is a ship, this is a fire … NOW put it the hell out.

So this was boot camp, the military way of training you. A lot of yelling, shouting and learning words you’ve never heard before. A lot of running to get from place to place to wait … and wait. When they let you have some free time, you could go to a place like the gym.

I’d seen flyers around the place offering free boxing lessons and thought I could probably use some. I tucked it away in the back of my mind.

To be continued …