Maybe I should not even write this; I hardly present as a role model. But what the heck, I am seventy-five years old, my kids are grown, responsible, and with children of their own. As Don would often say, “Let the hair go with the hide.” And without Don there is no story.
I am a hard-working medical intern at a hospital in my home town of Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1971. Twenty-five years old. The military draft is in force, especially for physicians. I have not been granted the deferment that would allow me to complete a medical residency without interruption by conscription.
What to do? Though nothing is certain I know I am likely to be drafted and thereby leave any residency I am in shorthanded. I am not, as are some of my colleagues, reluctant to join the service. I decide to remove uncertainty and enlist. I sign up for the Navy and whistle Anchors Aweigh as I return home from the enlistment office.
Home is an apartment in a four-story building on hospital grounds in which married interns and residents live, an apartment I share with my sweet wife, Gretchen, who is in the final year of medical school. A good place for us to live that year, subsidized rent and a short walk to the hospital.
As I complete this internship year I await my orders. Where will I go? The Navy can send me anywhere in the world. I’d rather not go to Viet Nam. I hope it will be someplace Gretchen can join me. I am advised that “the needs of the service come first.”
June 30, my final day as an intern. Normally we would move out but my wife has graduated from medical school and been accepted to intern at this same hospital and I have, by the luckiest of good luck, been assigned to duty at the Naval Air Station at South Weymouth, Massachusetts. A drive of a bit more than an hour from Worcester. To what do I owe my good fortune? No Viet Nam, no Diego Garcia in the middle of the Indian Ocean where a fellow intern will report, no duty aboard a ship cruising who knows where for who knows how long.
Meanwhile, my best friend from medical school had already chosen to fulfill his military obligation by joining the Public Health Service. With a bit of derision, even if tongue in cheek, I refer to that branch as the Yellow Berets.
I have been to Boston to buy my uniform. The dress whites, the khaki for everyday wear, the dress blues with the two gold stripes on the sleeves that tell all that I am a Lieutenant in the United States Navy. And the white hat with the gold strap. I think I look pretty sharp and that last day, June 30, Gretchen takes a photograph of me in my Navy outfit along with another intern in his Air Force duds.
My orders send me in early July to the Navy Building in Boston for an orientation of about ten days. I am excited but somewhat nervous as I finally find a place to park and walk to the building, looking pretty spiffy, I think, in uniform. The building is several stories high. I later learn that one of the upper floors houses the brig. I believe the presence of the brig explains what happens next.
My first day on active duty. The beginning of my career, such as it will be, as a Naval officer. I am almost to the front door when a stream of coffee pours down from an upper floor onto my brand new, beautifully white, hat. A mess. I have not even reported to my first duty station and I am now, I figure, improperly dressed. I quickly enter the building, spy a typical drinking fountain in a corner of the lobby and, hoping that nobody notices, put my hat under the stream of water to wash away, as best I can, the coffee. By some miracle, perhaps an adjunct of the primary miracle that has kept me in Massachusetts, I see no coffee on the remainder of my uniform. I place my wet but not dripping hat back on my head, ask a sailor at the desk where I am supposed to go, and report to a room with about thirty other new Navy Medical Officers. I remove my hat and hope it dries without a stain.
Things have certainly got to go better for the rest of this orientation period. The sessions are dull. It is July in Boston, hot and humid, there is no air conditioning. The open windows hardly help. I remind myself of my good fortune in being where I am.
One day the officer in charge tells us we will go that afternoon to the Navy Yard to tour an old, a very old, submarine. It is tied to the dock and never sails anymore. It is used solely for orientations such as ours. It will be instructive, he tells us, to see how tight and cramped submarines can be. But perhaps one or more of us might want to explore the possibility of duty on a nuclear sub. It is the one setting, he explains, where medical officers learn to perform regular naval officer duties in case the regular officers are disabled. One can even look through the periscope. Underwater tours can last months. That does not appeal to me, though I imagine if I were not married it might be fun to be isolated under water with a bunch of guys and lots of time to read. Or maybe not.
We break for lunch. I decide I want to just go for a walk during this break and off I go. I wander a bit. It is time to return and I head back to the building. I have walked further than I thought and I am rushing back. I see my orientation colleagues getting aboard a bus for the short trip to the submarine. I start to run but I am too late. The bus pulls away. Oh, shit!
What sort of trouble will I be in for missing this activity? Am I a deserter? AWOL? I just got into the Navy and I am already a screw-up. I run after the bus. It does not go very fast in the traffic. I keep running. It is hot and humid. I am perspiring profusely. I am getting tired and short of breath. I keep running. The bus slows, turns, and passes through a gate. I run through after it, completely drenched with sweat. The Navy guard at the gate watches me, in my officer’s uniform, pass him, sweat dripping, panting, but says nothing and waves me through. I catch up to the bus which has parked as the men on the bus get off. I get at the end of the line, gasping and sweating, and hope that nobody has noticed me. We tour the submarine, get back on the bus and return to the building.
The remainder of the orientation period passes without further incident.
The day arrives for me to report to the base at South Weymouth. Once again I am excited and nervous. I leave Worcester early and drive a short way to the Massachusetts Turnpike, a toll road, and several exits later get off at route 128, proceed for a bit, turn off at South Weymouth and find my way to NAS SoWey (Naval Air Station, South Weymouth). Whew. Everything is going well.
I get to the gate. The guard there directs me to the medical dispensary. It is just past the gate. A dull colored wooden one-story building. I park in the area next to the building. I have made it! What could possibly go wrong?
I get out of my car and walk to the front entrance, a couple of wooden steps up from the ground. Oh, no, going in just ahead of me is an older man in a uniform with a bunch of yellow stripes on the sleeve. I quickly count four. I think that means he is a Captain. Okay, I can’t avoid him so as I approach I fire off the snappiest salute I can – they really didn’t teach us how to salute at orientation – and say something like “Good morning, sir.”
The officer looks at me, appearing surprised and perhaps a bit confused. He returns my salute in a sort of half-hearted and bumbling way, mumbles something, and goes in the door. I soon learn he is the base’s dentist, a career man who has been in the Navy forever and has not been saluted in almost as long.
There are five of us docs manning the dispensary. All good guys. Each of us plans to fulfill our service obligation and then go on to the rest of our careers. Tom and Don have received extra training and are Flight Surgeons which means they care for the pilots and flight crews at the base. I am the most junior and care for family members as well as retired military folk who live nearby. The base commander, Capt. Smith, tells me my mission is “service and courtesy.” I can do that.
Duty is easy. We could easily get by with fewer docs. At lunchtime we play touch football. I drive home at the end of each day except once a week when I have overnight duty. That means I do nothing and get a room and sleep at the Bachelor Officers Quarters.
Every few weeks there is an Officers Meeting. Mandatory. At the end of the day all officers, which includes us docs, meet for a short presentation on some subject. These are usually military oriented and so of little interest to me. After the presentation officers generally go to the Officers Club where there are enormous platters of shrimp and cheap drinks. I often go, eat a few shrimp, maybe have a beer, and drive home.
One day in late springtime after a meeting I am at the Officers Club hanging out with Don. We are eating shrimp, drinking a few beers, having a good time. It is getting late, I need to head for home. But we are having so much fun, each beer adding to our good time, that Don tries to persuade me to stay for “just one more.” But my wife is waiting for me.
Don offers to call her, ask her if I can stay for that “one more.” Well, okay. Don is from the deep south with a smooth southern accent and smoother southern charm. He calls, charmingly, and she readily agrees.
Several beers later I really have to leave. It is really late now. “Just one more,” Don says. He calls my sweet wife again, explains that we have spent more time here than planned, but we will have just one more and he will make certain I get going after that, and safely so. Gretchen, though reluctantly, agrees.
A few more and at last I am going to leave. I have really had far too many beers and should not be driving but I decide as long as I take my time and drive carefully I should be okay. Don concurs. He lives on the base with his wife and kids and walks home.
I get into my car, put on the corrective lenses I need when driving, and head for home. I am very cautious and find my way to route 128. No problem. That’s a relief. It should be easy going now. I get onto the Massachusetts Turnpike. The Pike is a straight and wide road. At this time of night there is little traffic. I get in the right lane, drive the speed limit, heading for home.
Everything is going well. I turn on the radio and listen to a late-night talk show as I drive. I keep driving. The talk show keeps my attention as the miles pass by. Perhaps I am not paying close enough attention to my driving. After a while I think I have been on the Pike a long time. I have been driving slower than usual. Still, I think I should be almost home. I watch for signs. I realize I have passed my exit by several miles.
Well, I guess I will be getting home later than I thought. Okay, just get off at the next exit, reenter going the other way and all will be fine. Soon enough I approach the exit and turn off. I stop at the toll booth and pay. I think the toll taker looks at me strangely.
I drive a bit, trying to figure out how I reenter the Pike. I stop at an intersection, happen to look up at the rear view mirror and notice I am wearing my aviator sunglasses. I imagine the toll taker telling his friends about the time in the dark of night he collected a toll from a guy in a Navy officer’s uniform wearing sunglasses.
I change my glasses to the proper pair. That helps a lot. I drive a bit more trying to find my way back to the Pike. I see a sign. It says, “Entering Brimfield.”
Okay. I need to head in another direction. I think I know what to do now. I drive for a few minutes, taking right turns instead of the left turns I had been. A sign is ahead which I hope will direct me to the Pike. As I drive closer my headlights illuminate it. “Entering Brimfield.”
Do not panic. Remain calm. Think. Okay, I know where I made my error. I know the way now. I drive a few minutes, making the appropriate turns. At last, a sign ahead which will lead me to the Pike. I get closer. “Entering Brimfield.”
I am alone on the road. No cars have passed all this time. I drive some more. A few minutes later I see a sign. It directs me to the Massachusetts Turnpike. Whew.
I enter the Pike, drive to my exit, get off the Pike, and find my way home. It is well past midnight. I park, unsteadily enter the building, take the elevator to the third floor. Luckily, I do not encounter anybody. I unlock the door to our apartment. It is completely dark. Gretchen is asleep and I do not want to wake her. I know how exhausting internship can be.
In the dark I am perfectly quiet as I stagger down the hall to our bedroom. I congratulate myself for having survived foolish behavior. I am actually feeling pretty good about myself now. In the dark I walk straight into a wall with enough force to wake up my wife.
“Are you okay? What happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” I say as I leave my uniform in a heap on the floor, get into bed, and am immediately asleep.
* * *
In the morning I tell Gretchen all about it. We agree I was remarkably stupid. It does not happen again.
In spring, 1973, Don completes his active duty obligation and moves to New Orleans to enter a radiology residency. I wish him farewell. I do not know if I shall ever see him again. A few months later my time is done and Gretchen and I move to Philadelphia to enter an emergency medicine residency. At the same time Murph, another one of the docs, leaves the service and moves to upstate New York to practice family medicine. Tom must complete several more months on active duty until he can leave the Navy and return to the Chicago area.
Gretchen and I have been in Philadelphia just a couple of weeks when there is a knock on the door of our apartment. It is Don. He has been sent to work at a Philadelphia pediatric hospital for three months. We three see each other a lot during that time. No driving.
Our training completed, Gretchen and I return to New England. Every several years Tom and his wife come east to spend a few days in Boston. They contact us and Murph -who has moved to Rhode Island with his wife and a large brood of kids – and the six of us have dinner together, tell the old stories, and bring one another up to date on goings on. These reunions repeat over the next couple of decades.
In 2006 Gretchen and I retire and in a couple of years own a modest condo in Florida where we spend the winter. We happily reconnect with Tom. He visits us in Florida. In a few years he owns a condo a block away from ours. Now Tom and I often sit at poolside, talking about the things old guys talk about, while Gretchen exercises in the pool.
How fortunate Gretchen and I have been, together all these years, well, and still in love.
When we traverse the Massachusetts Turnpike on our way to Florida each autumn I always take note of the exit that leads to Brimfield. “Entering Brimfield,” I say. Gretchen smiles, shaking her head.
“Time just gets away from us,” Charles Portis has Mattie Ross say on the last page of True Grit.
True.
Originally appeared in Queen's Quarterly.
08/08/2023
04:48:54 PM