Anchors Away

Anchors Away

The physical was the last step before being accepted into the United States Navy officers training school upon graduation from LSU. Recruiters had been on campus a couple of weeks earlier, and a half dozen of us, facing the military draft as soon as we lost our college deferments, considered that being naval officers might be a better deal than being foot soldiers in the army.

Carlos, a friend I had met in a Phys Ed class as a freshman where we learned how to hit a golf ball with an eight iron, and with whom I had spent many an hour playing bourre, a game of chance using cards, and I had both taken the recruiters' written test and had scored well. After taking the tests, we walked across the campus past the Indian mounds to our room in the Pentagon feeling good about what we were doing.

Carlos was whistling "Anchors Away" and there was a little skip in his step to complement the big grin on his face. It was a relief to rid ourselves of the ominous threat of the military draft and to have a feeling of being in control of our futures, instead of continuing to live with the uncertainty of the draft which loomed as a big unknown in any career plans.

"This is going to be great," he said. We'll get our military obligation out of the way and get to see the world on Uncle Sam's dollar at the same time. We'll probably end up on the same ship. "

"Yeah, and officers' pay will be a little better than a draftee's pay, too," I added.

About a week later we got notice to report to New Orleans for our physicals. That Saturday, so there would be no conflict with our classes, we caught the city bus from the campus into town where we caught a Trailways bus from Baton Rouge to New Orleans which was only about eighty miles away. As far as we knew, it was smooth sailing ahead.

There were only the two of us there for our physicals. They had us touch our toes, listened to our hearts and lungs, had us cough (I've never known what that was for), looked in our ears and into our throats, took our blood pressure and our heart rate, all the usual stuff. We had no problems with any of it.

The final test was eyesight and color recognition. I was watching a board in front of me. The examiner would press a button and a green light would flash, another button made a red light flash, then a yellow, a blue, and so on. All I had to do was tell them the color of each of the flashing colors. After this test a minimum of four years of the rest of my life would have direction.

"Red, green, yellow, brown, blue, orange…," I responded to the flashes of color. The test over, the examiner said, "You know, you didn't even guess well."

"I know. I am better with printed colors. The color of lights, for some reason, are much harder for me to identify. Like at traffic lights. If the light is a dark green, it looks a lot like the red light to me, and I have to be very careful with the first light in a town. After I see which color is on top, I have no problem.”

"Anyway, is color blindness a problem?"

"Only if you were planning on being a naval officer. Color blindness is an automatic rejection. Otherwise, you are in fine physical shape."

Carlos was not rejected. He sailed off after graduation and I did not see him again for over four years. I was drafted a year and a half later and spent two years in the First Armored Division at Ft Hood Texas.