YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW, FELLA.

I joined the Air Force in 1949, eighteen and just out of High School. I originally was going in for three years, but at that time, if you were eighteen, you could join for one year. So I did.

The reason I joined the AF in the first place was because I didn't think I could hack the basic of the Army or the Marines or the Navy. I thought about the Coast Guard, and I wanted to join that, but somewhere between thinking of it and actually doing it, I forgot there was such a thing as the Coast guard. My senile forgetfulness started early this life.

I get sworn in, in Sioux City Iowa and traveled by Pullman train (get me!) to San Antonio Texas, to Lackland AFB. Took a day to get to Texas, another day to cross Texas. It was while traveling on the outskirts of Texas that I saw my first slum. Miles and miles of closely packed tin-can sheds in which happy families could get in out of the rain, supposing there was any rain.

We were marched to our barracks The D. I. (he wasn't called that, but I forget what he was called, and I saw movies) showed us how to make our beds, arrange our footlockers and send our civilian clothes home. Walking in to the barracks, I noticed Mexicans gathering together toward the end of the bay, speaking Spanish. I had seen Blacks do that, and of course Whites do it, but it is not noticeable since it is what we are used to. I don't know why, exactly, but the sight of the Mexicans doing this really took my attention. I was not used to seeing Mexicans. I don't remember ever seeing one until this time.

Which reminds me. In Estherville Iowa, in 1954, a small town in Northern Iowa, there was one taxi company and it was owned by a Black family. The only Blacks for hundreds of miles around. How and why did they wind up there? Now, I would question them, but in those days I just took things for granted. But it is puzzling, no? I wish I knew their story.

Then we went to get haircuts.

Every two weeks, we were taken, like naughty children, to get our haircuts. Black barbers on one side of the barber shop, White barbers on the other side. The Air force had just that year, 1949, been desegregated. I think. Either that year or the year before, or the year before that. I think it was that year. Does it matter? No. No White ever went to the Black side - we called them "Coloreds" back then and nobody minded, but progress abides, don't it? No Black went to the White side except one time later one of the Blacks - I think it was our Right Guide, went to a White barber because, as he loudly declared, "That guy don't know how to cut hair. He messed me up last time." Now, remember, this was a Black guy with Black hair and only a few weeks previously, we had all had our heads shaved. How bad could his cut have been? Did he take off an ear?

I hope I remember to tell you about the time I went to pull K.P. over in the area where the "Coloreds" used to live before military desegregation.

I was made a squad leader because I had previous military training. National Guard, you know, and there are some stories there too, which I might tell you some day, but not now, please. I'm busy here.

There were two "casuals" - guys who had finished Basic but didn't have their orders to report anywhere yet. When I finished my Basic, I was a casual for a week or so too. Got my own room. High living, being a casual. Could go on my own to chow hall too. Baby grew up, you betcha.

Anyhow, these two guys - just out of Basic, remember, were the T. I.'s (I remembered!) assistants. They wore corporal stripes on an armband. These two would kick in the butt, different Airmen that were messing up. The T.I. never did that, but evidently it was on his instructions. Either that or he just didn't mind what those two was (yep, that's correct syntax. "Was" is attending "what". It sounds wrong, but what's a fellah to do?) doing. I wish someone had punched one of them out, but of course nobody ever did. They didn't ever bother me in any way, nor any of the other squad leaders, which makes me think the kicking was the "T.I.'s idea. It was degrading and totally uncalled for.

I grew up rather poor. Didn't know it at the time. When we lived in Des Moines, away from my Grandparent's farm, we never had milk to drink except when I was in Forth grade - and the school started selling a small container of milk for, I believe it was five cents a week. Mom would sometimes give us four kids one egg each and I would dip bread in the yoke and then make a sandwich of the rest of the egg in order to make it stretch.

The first thing that impressed me in the mess hall was that three quarts of milk were at each table for four. We could have all the milk we wanted. Every morning I got two! (Count 'em) two! eggs. I still ate them the same way I had done in Des Moines until I realized that I didn't have to stretch it out anymore and I could just eat the eggs like we did on the farm. I ate my first turkey while in the Air Force.

When I was nine I read a story about a boy who gave up his savings to buy a poor little girl a turkey for Thanksgiving. He found out that her family was having round steak instead of turkey and asked his mother if round steak was cheap. His Mother said, "Well, Yeah!" OK, she didn't really say that. I just threw that in. I thought, "Damn! I wish we could have steak for Thanksgiving, let alone turkey. We always had chicken for Thanksgiving.

Still speaking of being poor, I once ate supper at a friend's house when I was five years old and my friend got a glass of milk, but I didn't. I had hoped I would get one, but didn't really expect it. Poor is poor, no matter who it is.

Also, Once when I was five, a classmate brought to school some toy cars which I thought pretty neat. I asked my mother if I could have some and she said, "Aren't you getting a little old for that?" That puzzled me for awhile, but then I thought she was probably right.

One of my very favorite memories of Basic training was that every morning, without fail, while we were dressing, a guy's radio would go off and we would hear Eddie Arnold singing, "Cattle Call, " which has a lot of yodeling in it - in fact, it always started off with yodeling.

The first time it happened, I expected someone to yell, "Turn that damn shit off!" But it never happened. Every morning, Eddie Arnold yodeling. Whites accepted it. Blacks accepted it. Mexicans accepted it. I always thought the guy who had that radio tuned to a Country station had a lot of self-confidence. And you know, I never knew who had the radio, never cared, That seems really odd to me now, but in those days I kinda sleep-walked through life. Missed a lot.

We would get up at daybreak, dress, fall out for roll call, then go back inside to shave and shower, fallback out for a march to the mess hall for breakfast. Every morning, without fail, these threatening dark clouds would gather and it looked for sure like it would rain. But it never did. Hot, hot, hot.

I loved that part of the day.