I entered boot camp at MCRD in July of ’65. My last name, the name I used until that point was different from the last name I used in San Diego because, I was informed, my step Dad had never legally adopted me. You can imagine where this is headed. That’s right. My new name was called for mail call and, like a dummy, I just stood there in a daze until the slap upside the head cleared the thinking part of my brain to make room for more important stuff.
Being the complete idiot that I was, the second time my name was called, about two minutes later, I was too busy trying to get the buzzing out of my head from my first letter, and failed once again to speak up. Just as the hand that held all knowledge applied itself to the brain housing, I realized my new name had been called once again. Too late. It sounded like a rifle going off beside my ear.
After that I never missed listening for, and answering to, the sound of my last name. Now a days I’m a little deaf so I do not always answer quickly. Thank God no one here has the hand of correction. I couldn’t survive it now.
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