The year was 1959. I'd always wanted to be a soldier, but Selective Service had me classified as a IV-F. Bad eyes, you see. I couldn't spot a pelican in a chicken coop. One summer day the local Army recruiter stopped by my house to find out if I still wanted to join.

"Sure," I said.

"Go to the main station Thursday morning at 0800 hours to take the physical exam," he said. "When you get to Station 7, just walk on by and don't say a word because that's where they do the eye examinations."

I'm not sure how or why that worked, but it did. A few weeks later I found myself lying in the prone position at a known distance rifle range at Fort Dix, N.J. Each shooter was allowed three rounds. Theoretically each trainee would puncture his target three times. Ideally the holes could be covered with a circle the size of a quarter.

I have to admit my target looked big as a bed sheet, so I carefully squeezed off three rounds. Each shot earned me the dubious and downright obtrusive display of "Maggie's drawers." The waving flag serves to indicate not only to the shooter but to the entire company, that I'd missed my target altogether.

Later, I was moderately relieved to be informed the shooter next to me had a fine shot group plus three random bullet holes. Those three could be adequately covered with a garbage can lid.

Eventually the Army found a job for me and I didn't have to be a John Wayne, so it all worked out fine.