Some of us have been encamped in military-like organizations since birth. For me, it began with heritage, followed thereafter by the Cub Scouts, Webelos and then the Boy Scouts, where I remained just long enough to secure the photography merit badge.
Our Scoutmaster once took us on a frigid winter encampment. Wearing all my clothing, including a wool cap, I shivered through several nights in my thin wool sleeping bag atop a canvas cot. Enough bivouacking for me. I grew up surrounded by military officers and veterans.
After law school, my dad joined the New York National Guard Cavalry. He loved horses. President Woodrow Wilson sent his regiment to chase invading Mexicans from the Rio Grande border. Soon thereafter, Dad was sent into the Great War in Europe. Once there, he organized forward observers at the Battle of the Somme.
Living near to us in New Jersey, Dad’s cousin, retired Army Col. Cyrus Trecartin, left his carpentry practice, reenlisted and moved to Washington, D.C., during World War II.
Cyrus’ son excelled as a Navy aircraft carrier pilot and was commissioned to train other pilots at the Pensacola Naval Air Station. Aunt Sybil, Cyrus’ wife, became a master sergeant over me when my parents traveled. I remember each one of them.
I also have memories of a retired Army engineer, Col. Jack Skillman, a larger-than-life figure showing up repeatedly at my grandfather’s apartment in Brooklyn. “Uncle Jack” would take us to the Fort Hamilton Officers’ Club for lunch.
My parents secured training for my brother to enter the West Point Military Academy to become an officer. When visiting my brother at a military prep school, we attended football games nearby at West Point’s Michie Stadium, watching fullback Felix “Doc” Blanchard and wide receiver Glenn Davis dispatch opponents.
My brother’s prep school biology teacher “Pop” Hyde convinced him to prepare for a career in medicine instead of the military, which he followed. As a physician, he fulfilled his military obligation by serving in the U.S. Army for three years in San Juan, Puerto Rico.
I was called up to serve, too. However, just before my undergraduate junior final exams, seven of my classmates and I contracted mumps. We were confined for a week in the college infirmary. We had to take all our exams the following fall. Meanwhile, the college registrar listed us under all other classmates in rank.
During the summer, I was called before my draft board. Although my left kneecap had been excised, I offered to serve as a noncombatant. The draft board were not amused. They had a quota to fill. I could not help.
My handicap that precluded being drafted into the military hadn’t excluded me from my high school drum corps. In high school phys ed, I raised a weighted shoe until my leg functioned normally. We practiced drumming several times each week during football season. We led the band onto the field at halftimes. After football victories, we paraded through the city.
Our snare drumheads were of calfskin. Drumming loudly, we sometimes punched holes in the heads. Our remedy was to keep a supply of drumheads in our homes.
We would soak off the torn head from its metal rim while softening a new head in a bathtub with several inches of warm water. We tucked the new round head onto the rim using the handle of a spoon. We then placed the fitted head on our drum to allow it to partially dry before beginning to tighten it to pitch.
Bob Brodsky writes from Rowley.