I was reunited with my original group from Cleveland about 1 in the morning, shortly after they had gotten to bed. The lights flipped on amidst much cursing and I came in. Finding my bunk, I dropped off to sleep. For about three hours. At 4 a.m., the lights came on again and we began another day. More processing and sorting. We stood in line for uniforms, physical exams, meals and haircuts. We waited to get our shots and some of the guys tried to spread the rumor that the injections were given with a square needle. The reality wasn't any more comforting: two massive stabs, one in each arm, delivered by an airgun-type of injector.

Dressed now in dungarees and blue work shirts, our transition from civilian to military was in full swing. We marched, we waited, we lined up for "chow" , we stood at attention and at ease and waited for bedtime when we could "hit the rack". We began to learn the lingo and expectations. Anything to keep from standing out.

This was the end of August, 1969, Great Lakes, Illinois, north of Chicago. We slept in cinderblock and tile barracks, ten metal-frame bunk beds in each of two rows, metal lockers between the bunks and sets of open shelves where everything was to be stowed away according to regulation. There was a regulation way to fold underwear, towels, socks, a proper place for toothpaste and stationary, a Navy way to arrange sheets and blankets. At one end of the room was the entrance. At the other end, an open area for socializing and instruction and, to the right, toilets, wash basins and laundry basins.

The commander of Company 926 was Chief Petty Officer Bert Partlow. After 35 years, I still haven't forgotten his name. He was mentor, instructor, occasional drill sergeant and the source of wisdom of all things "Navy". Some companies had commanders who were sadistically in love with their power, who screamed and bullied and intimated with threats and punishments. Bert was different. He missed the sea and was getting ready to go back to a ship. We were his last class and I think he wanted to enjoy it.

We were a band company: all of us played musical instruments and volunteered to play in the Great Lakes marching band which performed at every weekly graduation. Carrying a tuba meant that I never had to carry a rifle. It meant that we got an abbreviated schedule of classes so we could attend daily rehearsals. It meant that we could watch companies of new recruits practice rifle and marching drills on the asphalt "grinder" while we walked to and from the hangar-sized practice hall.

Bert appreciated that, being musicians, we were a little looser, that our shit was a little flakier and he tried early on to help us adjust. In our first day together, we sat on the floor in front of him and he told us what to expect from the next ten weeks. He talked about classes, inspections, weekly tests, how to keep from getting sent to the Grinder for punishment sessions of calisthenics, when to salute. He outlined the hundred ways there were to suffer the most dreaded fate of all - being AZMO-ed. I don't know where the name came from, but the meaning was icily clear - to get set back, to have to stay in boot camp for extra training. From Day One, our sights were set on leaving and the threat of Viet Nam paled in comparison to that of being AZMO-ed.

Pay attention, don't let your shit get flaky, pass your tests, don't collect demerits on inspections - all these things would help us get through with a minimum of trouble. Above all, he told us, it's best not to stand out. The people who stand out are the ones who screw up, who are watched, We were now in a world of conformists whose highest goals were to be exactly like everyone else. If you don't stand out, we were told, you'd be more likely to go home on schedule. Having started out my military career in highly suspect fashion, I listened to this advice with keen interest. This was Day Two and all I wanted was to be anonymous.

"You all are better off if I don't even know your name," CPO Partlow said, turning to look at me. "Isn't that right, Fox?"

I swallowed hard, felt my face burn and stammered "Yes, sir!"
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