It was 1952 and the Korean War was still going. I was a 17-year-old recruit assigned to Camp Breckenridge, Ky., for basic training.

Apparently the draft pool was getting a little low because they were calling up men who were close to the age limit of 26. I knew of one guy who turned 26 while in basic. The cadre was not much better off. Our company commander was a second lieutenant, the company clerk, a private first class doubled as the first sergeant, and the field-first sergeant was a Korean War vet just waiting to be discharged. Even the company cooks were picked out of the ranks, as in "you, you, you and you are now cooks, report to the kitchen. It's over there."

Since I had attended a military high school I had, at least, a semblance of military training; therefore, the people in charge decided that I would make an excellent platoon leader. Notice I said "attended" a military high school; I did not even graduate. I was ejected from the school at the start of my senior year, but I could field-strip an M-1 rifle blindfolded, and knew most of the marching commands, so I guess I had more military knowledge than the other recruits.

On a night after training, there was an altercation between two members of my platoon that evolved into a fist fight at the rear of the barracks. The building was an old wooden structure where our packs and other gear hung from the interior posts. I grabbed two bayonets from the nearest hanging and offered them to the two combatants with the admonition, "If you want to fight, make it like you mean it." They looked at the bayonets—M-1 bayonets are pretty nasty things. They looked at each other. Then they looked at me and decided they would just as soon take their grievance out in the boxing ring at the gym.

Looking back, I have no idea what I would have done had the two combatants taken up my offer.