by Terry L. Gould

Created on: May 30, 2008

The Amber Wall.
I jumped to the first step and waved a clumsy goodbye as the bus driver squished the folding doors between me and my childhood.

Mom's tears had dried sticky on my face and neck. She had stood at the end of the dirt drive, tears streaming as her third son in three years was going off to boot camp.
The Greyhound made several stops along its stuttered route to St. Louis. The small towns relinquished those among them that wouldn't be missed, and each one who joined our bus ride I was sure, wouldn't miss them either.

It was just four short months ago that I had taken the physical to join the Marines. It was two days of belittling and humiliation. Two days of being passed from one pair of cold hands to another with some smartass checking off squares on a clipboard.

I passed the physical for the Marines; but I wouldn't be joining them.

Sometime in late spring I had been accepted into Southwest Missouri State University with the intention of studying art. My dad had opened the envelope addressed to me from the Selective Service with the cherished IIS student deferment inside. No kid of his was going to be a faggot artist.

We had a good knock-down, drag-out fight. Not over his personal mandatory draft, but because he opened my mail. I would show him who the real man was. I would join the Marines.

The week following my verbal commitment to the Marines my girlfriend pleaded with me to change my mind. "You'll end up in Vietnam by February." she warned. "The Marines go straight to Vietnam! Every one of them! You don't want to get killed in this stupid war do you?" She saw the Vietnam War through the same eyes as my mother.

By now, I had forfeited my deferment and my decision to join the Navy was consequential.

I was grateful to be in St. Louis for only one night. The next morning I was on a train for the remainder of the trip to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center just north of Chicago. The most memorable part of the train ride was throwing up my breakfast somewhere between the dining car and my seat.

Boot camp was twelve weeks long and I came out a different personmission accomplished.
By the first week of March, the sixth radioman class of 1969 was mustered outside the barracks at Bainbridge, Maryland for our first march to the school building.
It was three months of studying, weekend fire watch duty and lots of socializing at the enlisted men's club. Winter turned to spring and we prepared for graduation and our next duty assignment.

Every graduation deserves a

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