On Aug. 31, 1965, I was relieved to have survived my very first plane ride from Dallas to Fort Polk, La. The day before, a new acquaintance and I had just finished breakfast in the reception station mess hall and were moseying back to the barracks when suddenly our serenity was shattered by the booming snarl of a huge corporal. We turned to face him and froze in our tracks.

"Hey you, double ugly! I'm talking to you!" he yelled.

My acquaintance and I glanced at each other in an effort to determine which of us was the ugliest. Finally, the corporal looked down at me and asked, "Where are you from, boy?"

"Texas, Corporal," I said.

"Didn't they teach you how to read?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. He then had me turn around and read the sign which was displayed along the sidewalk leading to the mess hall. It said "Keep Off the Grass." Because I'd walked on the grass, the corporal told me I'd be doing some area beautification. He gave me a pair of finger nail clippers and told me they'd serve as my lawn mower.

In parting, he explained that he'd be back at 1600 hours, and if he found a blade longer than three inches, the sky would surely fall on Chicken Little.

I had no concept of military time and I toiled away until after supper.

Finally, a sergeant stopped by and asked what my malfunction was, so I repeated the corporal's instructions. He glanced at his watch and informed me that as it was 1630 hours and that I was released from the detail. Looking back, I soon learned that the time had actually been about 1830 hours.