April 15, 1972

As a 19-year-old draftee, I had heard my share of war stories about basic training from my brother serving in the Navy and my dad, a World War II vet.

Needless to say, my mind was racing as I approached Fort Knox, Ky., on that bus. Trust me, the one truth I did know was there was going to be marching and a lot of it! The hills of Kentucky were pretty to the eye, but I also knew to fear any hill with any nickname. Yet the two on our marching way were known as Misery and Agony. The rain of early spring was cold and the mud made the march even more cumbersome; however, even with the advent of the new "volunteer Army," I knew the drill sergeant was not going to take the weather into consideration as we set off to personally experience the hills. The only thing I do remember is, as God as my witness, I was amazed at the fact that these two mountains were unaware of the term "down hill."

Our company did finally return to the barracks without any knowledge of exactly how long the journey took, but I do remember the leg cramps. I remember discovering the fact that you can taste sweat between the raindrops. I remember that it is possible to have a blister on each toe on each foot. I remember thinking kitchen police isn't really that bad. I also remember that I did understand that not all the hills of Kentucky are that pretty, especially those named Misery and Agony!