In March of 1958 I measured in at 5’7” when I joined the Corps. In the intervening 60 years I’ve lost an inch of height but not the ability to get in a friendly jab at our brothers and sisters in our nation’s other fine military branches. My wife and I were recently at a local eating establishment that serves great sandwiches and soups. One has to order at the cash register, pay and then give your name so they can find your table. We were waiting at our table for our food to be ready when I walked back up to the register counter to pick up some extra napkins. As I approached, the cute young thing on the register was taking the order of a soldier, standing about 6’2”, 210 lbs or so and wearing utilities – or whatever they’re called these days – with a “U.S. ARMY” patch proudly showing over the left breast pocket. I heard her saying “I’m sorry. You’re in here practically every day but I can’t think of your name.” I walked back to our table and was about to sit down when I noticed him walking over to the self-serve soft drink fountain. Without a thought of what this big bruiser might be capable of doing to me I quickly sidled over to him and said “You know, if that patch there on your jacket said “USMC” instead of “U.S. ARMY” she would have remembered your name.” I reached up, patted him on the shoulder and walked back to my table while he just stood there shaking his head.
Of course, as we left I went by his table and thanked him for his service.