After six months on the Westinghouse student course in Pittsburgh, I made my way to Lima, Ohio for my next assignment. With help, I got settled into living quarters and reported for work. My assignment was simple, assisting an engineer in the design of relays for use in airplanes. I was soon encouraged to get off the student course and become a regular employee. Before I became acquainted with my fellow workers I received the customary “Greetings” letter from my draft board. So much for my foray into the world of industry, where I had hoped to contribute some small thing toward winning World War II which still had a year and a half to last. 

I reported to the induction center at Fort Thomas, Kentucky. From there, a long train ride landed me with a group of recruits at Camp Crowder, Missouri for basic training. 

I don’t remember many of the details of my four-month stay there. Perhaps I meant to forget. I remember reveille, morning roll call, barracks inspections, KP duty, close order drills, Sunday night cold cuts, calisthenics, the obstacle course, and the sergeant who delighted in leading the company on midnight-till-dawn hikes, where I learned the trail rocks by their first names. I enjoyed the days on the rifle range. When someone missed the target completely, the bright red Maggie’s drawers would be run up the pole behind the target. I never earned that “honor”. Inasmuch as I was in Signal Corps basic training I was required to attend classes in basic drafting. Drawing electrical circuit symbols was a boring task, especially on a hot day that would cause sweat to drip from my nose on to my paper. The thing I hated most was certainly not boring. Crawling on my belly across a field with bullets flying over my head was far more exciting than I desired. 

Perhaps the most enjoyable day of my stay at Camp Crowder was one on which a buddy and I escaped to take a train ride to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. My buddy talked the train engineer into letting us ride in the cab of his steam locomotive. It was a new experience for me. Of course we had to stand clear of the operators, but there was plenty of room. It was interesting to see the view of tracks ahead, and to blow the whistle. The fireman watched the steam pressure gage and shoveled in coal accordingly. All this reminded me of my boyhood dream of driving my own train. The only thing wrong with the ride was that it was too short. We spent the afternoon wandering around the resort, and took the next train back, arriving in time for Sunday night cold cuts.

I learned at least one useful thing in basic training. I learned to drive an army truck. This was my first driving experience. I figured that if one could drive a truck that had to be double clutched, one shouldn’t have any trouble driving anything else.

After completing basic training a group of us were shipped to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey for Signal Corps training. I had been there only a short time when I was granted a furlough. I used the time off to visit friends and family and returned by train. As the train approached my destination I noticed it was raining. I got off the train and boarded an army bus waiting at the train station. As the bus moved toward the base I realized that it was a really nasty night. The rain fell harder and harder and the wind seemed to pick up speed. After an uneasy ride the bus stopped at the PX (post exchange) to discharge its passengers. I made a dash for the door through the driving rain. Once inside I remembered that somewhere along the east coast a hurricane was lurking, but I never dreamed that I would meet it head on.

I hung around the PX awhile along with the others, dreading to venture out into the storm. The barracks was about two hundred yards away. I finally bucked up my courage and dug out a slicker from my duffel bag. I opined that if I rolled up my pants as far as possible that I might save them from being soaked. So I rolled them up, put on the slicker with my bag tucked underneath, and faced the storm. I leaned into the furious wind and as if I had been pulling a heavy sled made my way to the corner of the street. At the corner things became much more difficult. I needed to turn the corner to get to the barracks. This was not a straightforward maneuver. I had to reorient my brain once I started to turn. I staggered around awhile before I could resume walking, for now I had to lean far to my right instead of forward. I was lucky not to have been blown off my feet. Once I regained my balance I continued the long walk to the barracks leaning sideways into the wind. I had to make one more turn before I arrived but that was less hard to do, having practiced the turn.

Did rolling up my pants help keep them dry? Not in the least! Despite the slicker and my best efforts, my only dry clothing were my under shorts. I hung up my soaked stuff and went to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. The roaring wind and rain caused visions of a flying roof, our roof. The sound of the storm seemed to increase as the night wore on. Despite the constant disturbance I did finally sleep, only to be abruptly awakened by the Budweiser Clydesdales galloping across the roof, dragging their beer wagon. I feared that the roof had followed them and waited to be soaked again. Being still dry, I slept fitfully until morning. By then the storm had passed. I got up, and with my fellow privates went out to view the damage. Each barracks had a large steel-pipe chimney at one end, supported by guy wires attached to a ring at roof-level. Our chimney was shorter than others. It obviously had broken off at the guy wire ring and disappeared. 

“So,“ said I, “I was mistaken about hearing horses last night. It must have been our chimney making its escape.” No word was ever heard of the whereabouts of our chimney. 

In the weeks that followed I went to training classes to learn about Signal Corps stuff. I had almost learned the Morse code when one day I found myself undergoing a physical examination. A doctor looked at the protrusion just below my Adams apple, asked a few questions and took some notes. I’d had a lump on my throat for two or three years, now about the size of a small hen egg. A day or so later I was ordered to report to the hospital. There I underwent surgery to remove the lump, a benign tumor attached to my thyroid gland. It would be forty years before I learned that the surgeon took half of my thyroid gland with the lump. Of course I fell in love with my nurse, a pretty red headed young woman. The affair lasted until she made me get out of bed and walk around.

Walk around I did until the incision in my throat healed. The doctors agreed that the scar left looked all right. Soon orders were handed me to report to Fort Sheridan, Illinois for mustering out ‘at the convenience of the government”. At that point it was also at my convenience, for I had felt misplaced. I wanted to apply my meager skills to an endeavor that mattered. In a few days I was given my discharge papers, mustering out pay and a few clothes, then bid good bye. I said good bye to my military career, but not before I had experienced the frosty feeling of standing on the shore of Lake Michigan in a January wind.

A civilian once again, I traveled home to see my parents before returning to Lima. In about a week I went back to Westinghouse and admitted that the Army didn’t want me after all. My new boss said they wanted me back. I was glad to be wanted and stayed for fifty years.