In April 1965, my 22-year-old self headed to Fort Dix, N.J., for basic training. We arrived by bus at camp with a lot of screaming and yelling—just to see my brother-in-law's brother as our drill instructor. I said, "This will be good."

The first thing they asked was for volunteers, and like fools, five of us raised our hands.

The rest of the troops were sent to kitchen police, and I got the job to pick up the company commander every morning with a jeep. Then I picked up a deuce-and-a-half to take the troops to training.

Basic training was not so bad.