15 February—I was 15, but only a few months away from 16, so presumably I was old enough. My first week of college. At registration—a totally off-putting new experience for me—among the required courses, I had been given a choice of physical education or Army ROTC (for the benefit of innocent readers, that’s the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps). Since even in my callow youth I wasn’t particularly fond of sports or physical exercise in general, ROTC was a no-brainer. Most of the student aides in the registration hall referred to the ROTC battle group as the campus boy scout troop.

It was peacetime, after all. We were out of Korea; and Vietnam—which most of us knew at the time as Indochina—was in the late fifties still a vague, distant, unlikely prospect, seldom making headlines. The great unwashed were assured by the Eisenhower administration that our troops over there were just unarmed advisors. Ike had got us out of Korea, so what was there to worry about? And I was too young to have registered for the draft anyway, so I’d never thought about it.

So ROTC it was. I was excited and looking forward to an Army Reserve commission in four years. My father, who had volunteered right after Pearl Harbor (otherwise I probably wouldn’t be here), wasn’t thrilled. But a couple of days later I eagerly reported to the supply sergeant to pick up my spiffy new uniform and accessories, military science books, and rifle. They’d all remain the property of the government, of course.

Usually, the sergeant explained, first-year cadets would be getting used uniforms, but since the pink, khaki, olive drab officers’ uniforms of my father’s day were being phased out, my class would be issued brand new Army Green ones, with matching trousers and jackets—which for some reason were called blouses. And I’d have to get the pants—I distinctly remember that SFC Trawick spoke of the trousers informally—altered, but no cuffs under any circumstance. And he told me not to worry about spit-polishing my shoes.

The really exciting part was getting my own rifle. To be honest, in my almost 16 years, I had never but never even been close to a real firearm, let alone held one. I can’t even recall having fired or held a BB gun. During and right after WW II, being the youngest and smallest kid on the block, I was invariably made to play the Kraut or the Jap and was never allowed to carry a wood-cutout firearm like the bigger kids who were always the good guys. But now I’d be getting my own M1 rifle, what Patton had called “the greatest battle implement ever devised.” If my senescent memory doesn’t deceive me, the field manual issued with the Garand called it “U.S. Rifle Caliber .30, M1.”

I’d go on to field-stripping, cleaning, and reassembling the doughty old Garand that had seen combat in Europe and Asia pretty competently. And, having been warned, I never even came close to suffering dreaded M1 thumb because I was always very judicious about putting PMR thumb in the receiver.

Although I maintained my caliber .30 M1 diligently—well, with regular stripping and dusting rather than oiling and wiping, anyway—I never got to fire it. It seems the center-fire 30-06 rounds for the big M1s were too expensive for ROTC range practice. Especially in peacetime. So my first experience discharging a firearm was with a little rimfire .22-caliber M1 carbine that I didn’t even have to clean after doing the dirty.

And—I kid you not, as Jack Paar was fond of saying—my very first shot at the ROTC range was a bullseye. Right smack in the middle of the black circle. I was incredulous. I think I still have the target somewhere. But it was only beginner’s luck. Because most of the other holes in the paper target are well away from any circles, let alone the bullseye. And my meager shooting ability—I can’t really call it marksmanship—has seriously deteriorated even further in the several decades since then . . .