Parkway Rest Stop » Fort Holabird or the Twilight Zone? The trip from Fort Dix to Baltimore lasted approximately three hours. It had occurred to me that it was the first time in eight weeks that I actually was sitting in a relatively comfortable seat. In basic training, there are virtually no chairs.

True, one sits in training rooms and in the mess hall, but those chairs are built for function, not for comfort. Sitting on a bunk is just not the same as sitting in a real chair. I wonder if today I would find a seat on Greyhound bus quite as wonderful as it seemed then. More importantly, however, the trip meant three hours alone – away from other soldiers and drill sergeants for the first time in more than eight weeks. It had been easy to forget that the world did not stop at the Fort Dix gates, but rather it was humming along quite nicely. The tiny island of civilian life on the Greyhound bus gave me three hours to stare out the window and think about the past eight weeks, about my life prior to those eight weeks, and how strange it seemed that things I had nothing to do with and had no control over placed me on this bus headed south to some damned place no one seemed to know anything about. Once in Baltimore, I dragged my jam- packed duffel bag off the bus, and asked a few people where I could catch the bus to Fort Holabird.

One person said, “I heard of Fort Meade, but I really don’t know anything about Fort Holabird. Are you sure you don’t mean Fort Meade?” A couple other people were equally as ignorant about Fort Holabird. Watch Frank &Amp; Lola Mediafire. I thought Christ, these people live here, and they never heard of the place? What the hell…??? Finally, I asked the information person at the bus terminal, who mercifully knew what bus I should take to get to this mystery military post. Shortly thereafter, duffel bag and I boarded the local bus that would take us to the base.

I asked the bus driver to let me know when we got to Fort Holabird. No problem,” he said. I was more than a little relieved to confirm that I was on the right bus and that the driver actually knew where the damned place was. The uniform again provoked stares, smiles and glares from the other passengers. By this time, I was becoming accustomed to it. Besides, I was tired, and I just wanted to get to wherever the hell I was supposed to be.“Here’s the base, son,” the driver said, as he stopped the bus by the gate, in front of a guardhouse. I struggled with the duffle bag down the bus aisle and thanked the driver as I turned to step off through the bus doors.

As I got off the bus, I was horrified to see an MP (military policeman) looking at me and walking at a brisk pace from the guardhouse in my direction. Oh hell. Here it comes. He was a tall, staff sergeant, the same rank as my drill sergeant. I didn’t think it possible, but the MP looked even more frightening than the drill sergeants I had just spent eight weeks with. He was wearing the white MP helmet and a black MP armband.

Dedicated to all Paratroopers. All our sites are Picture intensive. The planes,Jumpschool, WWII and Korean Combat Jumps, and Just great Airborne pictures. The trip from Fort Dix to Baltimore lasted approximately three hours. It had occurred to me that it was the first time in eight weeks that I actually was sitting in a.

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His trousers were bloused over his spit- shined airborne boots, and he wore a 4. I braced myself for what I was certain would be a ration of shit about something or other I was not doing right. Before I could say that I was reporting for duty (that’s what one is supposed to say), he said, “Hi. You need help with that bag?”I said, “Pardon me?” What did he say?? He repeated, “How ya doing?

You look like you could use some help with that bag.”I was speechless. I could only nod my head in the affirmative, something that would have unleashed a torrent of invective from a drill sergeant about the importance of “sounding off like you got a pair!”The MP looked at me for a moment, and I thought, OK, let the hollering begin. He didn’t holler; He said, “You look beat,” and he effortlessly tossed my duffel bag over his shoulder and carried it to the guardhouse.

He set it down and asked, “Where on the base are you headed?” Still in shock, I told him that I had no idea where I was headed. I just knew that I was ordered to come here. He smiled – he actually smiled – and said, “No problem. Let me take a look at your orders.”He took a quick look at the orders and said, “O. K. The building you have to report to is about a quarter mile down this street on the right side – big brick building – you can’t miss it. When you get there, ask for Sergeant Perez. He’ll get you squared away.” I thanked him and began walk in the direction he had indicated.

The MP shouted behind me, “Wait!” I thought, OK, I knew that this was too good to be true – this must be some kind of trap. Now, the hollering will begin. I turned in his direction and said, “Yes?” He said, “It’s really too far for you to walk with that bag. I’ll have someone drive you.” OK, Jimbo, this must be some kind of a Twilight- friggin’- Zone thing. Watch Auto Recovery Tube Free there. There is no way that white- helmeted, bloused- trousered, pistol packin’staff sergeant MP just said that he would get me a ride because it was too far for me to walk with a heavy bag.

But, that’s what he said. The MP got on the phone, and in a minute or two a corporal appeared in an Army car and said, “You the guy who needs a ride? Hop in.”. During the short ride to my destination, I couldn’t think of anything to say to the corporal, other than to thank him for the lift. Here’s the barracks building” he said. Sergeant Perez should be in the orderly room. He’ll check you in.”I found the orderly room, and, just as promised, Sergeant Perez was there.

He was a sergeant- first class (three stripes up and two rockers). Again, I found myself thinking that it was absolutely impossible for a sergeant- first- class to be anything other than mean and ornery. When I entered the room, breathless from having lugged the bag up the stairs, Sergeant Perez looked up from the papers on his desk, and said, “Yes? What can I do for you?” Wait a minute.

This is the way civilized people speak. Sergeants don’t talk this way. What in Christ’s name is going on here?“I’m reporting for duty, sergeant.”“Oh, you must be one of the new students.

You’re a little early, but that is not a problem.” Did he say “students?”I could no longer contain myself. I blurted out, “What is this place?”“You don’t know?” the sergeant said.“No I don’t, and I have not been able to find anyone who knows anything about this place.”“This is the United States Army Military Intelligence School.”I stood there in silence trying to process it all. After a few seconds, I asked, “What will I be doing here?”“Let’s take a look at your orders, and we’ll see.” I handed him my orders, and he said, “You are a 9. C. You’re an interrogator.”“An interrogator?” He remained patient, despite my stupidly repeating everything I had just heard.“Yes, that’s what a 9. C is. I also see that you speak German.”“Well, I took the German test. How can you tell from looking at the orders that I speak German?”The sergeant explained, “It says that your MOS (military occupation specialty) is 9.

C2. L2. 9. The “9. C” tells me that you are an interrogator, and the “2. L2. 9” tells me that you speak German.” I couldn’t help thinking back to that miserable bastard at Fort Dix who tried to intimidate me into not taking the German test. The sergeant, still looking at my orders, continued, “Oh, now I know why you might be a little puzzled by all this. I see that you are a draftee.

We don’t get many draftees.