Episode 11: You’re In the Army Now!
In 1958, after leaving Ohio University—actually I was asked to leave due to poor grades—I enlisted in the Army for a three year hitch, which was a better alternative than living with this disappointment and the wrath of my father. But my fears were alleviated, as before I left all was forgiven and everyone thought military service was a good idea.
There are two memories of the early days of my time in the service which are indelibly impressed in my mind: one comical, and one sad, but both rooted in cultural misunderstanding.
After basic training, I was sent to Fort Sam Houston, Texas for X-Ray technician training. Upon my arrival, I immediately wanted to call home to let my parents know I had arrived safe and sound. Money was short, so I made the call collect (I still remember my mother’s phone number: Riverside 71810). The call resulted in the following short conversation between the operator and my mother:
Operator: I have a collect call from Marco for anyone at this number.
Mama: Marco no home, Marco ina Texa.
Followed by an abrupt hang-up on the homefront!
I asked the operator to please try again, which she did, and which garnered the same response: Marco no home, Marco ina Texa!
Followed by another hang-up!
I asked the operator to please try again, and if possible to let my mother hear my voice. The operator didn’t think she could do that, but agreed to try again. As soon as Mama answered the phone, I began speaking over the operator’s voice, and Mama heard me. She only said “okay” to the operator, and immediately began telling me that someone had called twice for me, but she told them I was “ina Texa.” The operator let the call go through, I didn’t try to explain what had transpired, and Mama and I had a nice conversation.
After my training was over, I was sent to Illesheim, Germany, assigned to the 536th General Dispensary as an X-Ray technician. That is where I met my good friend (to this very day), Tony Piana. Tony quickly introduced me to the three local watering holes, or Gasthauses (guest houses), in the tiny village. This was still only twelve or thirteen years after the Second World War, and Americans were using German bases to house our troops, so many German nationals were not very happy to have us there, feeling that we were corrupting their young women, and gloating over the outcome of the war.
One night as we sat in one of the gasthauses, with Tony enjoying his beloved German beer, and me sipping some very good German wine, I was approached by a slightly drunken German man, pointing his finger at me, and yelling, “Juden raus!” Well I had enough German in college to understand this—he thought I was Jewish, and he was telling me in no uncertain terms to get out! I was horrified at this, and of course, frightened. Sadly, the upshot was that Tony punched the man, and we left as quickly as possible.
I never had another bad experience like that for the remainder of my tour of duty in Germany. In fact, the next fifteen months were some of the best of my life, up to that time.
