It was 1966, I was 20 and a specialist 4 in the Army, stationed on a missile battery in the mountains above Pasadena, Calif. Because I grew up in the Los Angeles-area and was lucky to be stationed there after basic training, I applied and was accepted as a duty driver. I drove the pass bus up and down the mountain. I took troops to a football game at the old Coliseum there, and to Dodger Stadium all the time. A couple of times a month, I’d drive the pass bus down to Pasadena.
Every now and then, I drove officers all over Southern California. One particular time stands out far above the rest. It was springtime, we had an exceptionally rough inspection, and I was asked to drive a major general down the mountain to Fort MacArthur in San Pedro. It was usually a 2-hour-plus drive. I had been given strict instructions right from day one: When driving an officer, I was only to speak when spoken to, not to smoke (as we all did back then), keep my service hat on and wear my Class A dress uniform with all decorations.
I made sure the staff car was washed and gassed up. I parked in front of the headquarters building. Out came a group of officers who chatted for a few minutes. Then a major general (two stars) walked toward me. I opened the back door, gave him a smart salute and said, “Good afternoon, Sir!” He returned my salute and got in the back seat. Shortly we were out the gate and heading for the highway.
“Thank goodness that’s over with,” the general said. He sat back, took off his coat and his shoes, opened the top button on his shirt and pulled his tie down. He patted my right shoulder and asked, “What’s your name, soldier?”
