Loon - Jack McLean [31]
The Columbia way?
Fuck the Columbia way.
Two days later, I made my way across the Charles River to Cambridge and historic Harvard Yard.
Again, I felt uncomfortable. My hair was short. I wore the same ill-fitting civilian suit over another of my father’s starched white shirts and business ties. My spit-shined shoes reflected a scene that was light-years removed from the Parris Island parade deck. I could not have felt more out of place if I’d been wearing my uniform.
Yet the interview lasted an hour and I actually enjoyed it.
They had received my transcript, but that subject never came up. The young man who interviewed me, like so many others of that era, was attending graduate school for the purpose of avoiding the draft. He was, however, most interested in my experience and in me. He said that he admired my decision to enlist. He asked that I apply for admission. My feet never touched the ground as I left the office.
Before heading home, I stopped by the student store at the Harvard Coop and bought a crimson Harvard sweatshirt. I knew that admission would be a long shot but was pleased that I had made a good showing. I had no way of knowing at the time that that article of clothing would become the only piece of civilian attire to accompany me throughout my entire tour in Vietnam. Even on long midsummer patrols through sweltering jungle, the souvenir of my visit to Cambridge that day found its way into the bottom of my pack when perhaps an extra canteen of water would have been a more prudent choice.
In the end, I decided that I would apply to two colleges—Boston University and Harvard. I was thrilled at the prospect of attending either and felt that I had a shot at each. Were I admitted, I would be spending the four years after my discharge in Boston. Nothing could have made me happier. I wondered how I would ever survive another year of boredom in Barstow, but put the thought out of my mind.
The unlikely possibility that I might be back in Brookline within the week with orders for Vietnam barely occurred to me.
12
EVEN IN THE EARLY EVENING, BARSTOW WAS BLAZING hot as I stepped off the bus from the Los Angeles International Airport. It had been a long trip from Boston, and I was beat. With a seabag slung from my shoulder, I made the trek up the hill to the battalion office to report in with the officer of the day.
“Lance Corporal McLean, Lance Corporal McLean,” he murmured as his finger scrolled down the duty roster. “Ah, Lance Corporal McLean, here you are.” The young lieutenant looked up for the first time, and his eyes caught mine in a knowing gaze. “Lance Corporal McLean, you are to report immediately to Sergeant Enderly in the battalion office. I believe he has your new orders.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The blood left my face, and my knees withered as I picked up my bag and turned to go. All manner of possibilities flew through my head as I walked across the parade deck to the battalion office. Perhaps I was going to Philadelphia, but it did not appear likely. Every marine was a basic rifleman, and there was a war going on.
Sergeant Enderly was matter-of-fact when I appeared at his door.
“Lance Corporal McLean reporting as ordered, Sergeant.”
“McLean,” he responded. “I’ve got you right here.” Piled carefully on the side of his desk were what appeared to be fifteen or twenty large envelopes all stamped with the familiar official ORDERS. THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS. He fingered down to the middle of the pile and produced the one with my name and service number clearly stamped on the cover. With aplomb, he stood and handed the envelope to me.
“Congratulations, Lance Corporal, you are getting the shit out of Barstow.” With that, he shook my hand in a manner that felt more sarcastic than congratulatory.
“Where am I goin’, Sarge?” I was sure I knew the answer, but I also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me rip open the envelope and try to decipher the Marine Corps mumbo jumbo of numbers and acronyms