On this Veterans Day, Nov. 11, I am called upon to come up with some memories of my four years — actually, three years and nine months as the Korean War activated early release, enabling the Air Force to get rid of nonessential personal.

We typists felt pretty bad about that. Here a few of my memories.

My experiences in service of my country, compared to veterans who slept in mud and ate cold K meals and were actually shot at, were basically, mostly civilian.

As my family remembers, I originally went to the Post Office recruiting office to join the Marines, like my father had done in the Spanish American war, before going all Navy.

While I sat there, the grizzled old Marine who had survived World War II and Korea, still had the cropped down “high and tight” haircut, now grown gray and thin.

He had become, in this last stage job, impassive, unemotional, sitting there with his weary scarred face and newly pressed khakis, inducting muscular football players, weight lifters, young truck drivers — all eager to risk their lives.

When I, all 98 pounds of me in my nylon shirt, white paint pants and duck backed greasy haircut, filled the hardwood chair across from him, this old man looked up at me, dropped his pencil and folded his gnarled hands.

He snarled and with no smile on his old lips, spoke in a low volume animal growl.

“Girl, girl, where did you come from?”

“High school, sir,” I whimpered.

For the next 10 or 15 minutes, as the wall clock ticked away and the long benches full of future Marines waited, the old drill sergeant told me the stories of his service, and those of his son, who had lost his legs in combat. I swallowed hard.

I told him of my brothers who served in the Navy in the “big one” and their war years.

“Your brothers, all patriots, I’m sure my son, went to bed in clean sheets, ate steaks and had hot coffee in clean cups. But God bless ‘em.”

He went on as the sun broke through the dirty windows, with unimaginable horror tales of combat.

I sat there with my clean white teeth showing from my open mouth, listening to a real veteran, whom I now know was generously trying to keep this skinny puppy in his clean jeans and sneakers, from dying in a “Police Action.”

He finished with a deep cough and waited for my decision.

With shaking hands, I pulled up my jeans, thanked him for his time, and walked down the hall to the office of the United States Air Force.

San Antonio training base, July 1951.

Two Air Force Medics stood across from one another in the base hospital barrack.

One, a medic, looked like a lifeguard from the beach somewhere, maybe Santa Monica, maybe Biloxi, Mississippi. There was a girl in his last summer, I’m sure, and here he was, ready to inoculate my flight with seven shots for overseas duty. Seven.

Across from him was an older officer, a “real” doctor.

Each held in their hands a brace of three loaded needles.

The officer described their ingredients. No one was asked if they were allergic to the medications.

As we came abreast of them, we were shot up. My reactions were minor. I slept the rest of the day. Some of my classmates dropped on the spot, and were carried away. True story.

Nov. 4. Walgreens Pharmacy in Waterville.

I’ve been injected yet again. I’ve had all the required anti-COVID juice; this one is for the good old-fashioned flu.

I adjust my mask and step out into the sunlight.

And the beat goes on.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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