Accidental Typing        saved  My Life!       My father  took me  to visit  Professor Winegar  at the  business college,  located above  the  Max Friedman’s jewelry store  on  Gay Street.  During the summer  between fifth  and sixth grade,  I was enrolled in  a typing course,  along with a couple of  other easy courses,  such as  spelling.        While enrolled at  U-10,  in the  ten year pogrom,  I received an invitation  from the President of  the United States  to participate  in the Viet Nam activities (I flunked out).  I immediately chose to demonstrate my enthusiasm  by enlisting in  the Navy.  The recruiter sent me  to the  AFEES  (Armed Forces Entrance and Examining) station  on  Central Avenue  (the former  National Linen Service building),  to take a  physican exam  and test.  I was elated to achieve  a score  of  98  out of  100!  When I brought the results  back to  the recruiter  in the basement  of  the Main Street Post Office,  he gave me  the bad news:  my score  did not qualify me  for enlisting.       “ But —  I only missed  two answers! ! ” “ If  you had  received  a score  lower than thirty”  he said,  “ You could  get  right in  on this special program  that we have.”  At the time —  the U.S. Army  had complained  that  they had to take  all the rejects  from other services,  and Congress  had legislated  a quota system  which required  the branches of  armed forces  to equalize the dummy distribution.       I went to Basic and advanced infantry training,  and was transferred to  Ft. Jackson,  SC.  The personnel clerk  asked me:  “Can you type ? ”  “ Yes  I can! ”  I said.  “ I have been  to business college! ”       That was  when  the magic  of  Accidental Typing  changed the course  of  my life  and  got me assigned  as  a  clerk typist  to  Company C,  Garrison:   C - Gar. —  Smoke'um!       When  I arrived  that  first day,  I  was told  to  type  a form  to  take  to  the post stockade,  in order to  escort  a  fellow  from  North Carolina,  to  the medical clinic.  He was  a  backwoods hillbilly,  who  had  “deserted”  and  gone  back home  for  a month  or two,  before  showing up  to be  sent  on  his way  to  Viet Nam.  This  seemed to be  an example  of  God’s benevolence  to me:  ( Business College),  and  to  this  dumb ass,  who  had  been  sent  to the stockade  until  he was  discharged,  instead  of  being slaughtered  in  the jungles  of  Viet Nam. The typewriter  was  a  state  of  the art  (at the time)  IBM Selectric.  I  couldn’t  figure out  how  to  turn on  the machine.  I  was  afraid  to ask for help.  How  could  one—  NOT  know  how  to use  the machine?  (I  had  attended  Business School  during  the dark ages  of  manual typewriters—  after  fifth grade.)  Finally,  I shuffled the papers,  carbon sheets,  and  kept  straightening  the alignment  until  I saw the switch—  underneath  the machine,  below  the  on/off  label.       Slow  and  meticulous,  does  not  describe  the process  of  creating  this manuscript—  several times,  with  carbon copies;  until  I  got it typed  without errors.       I  applied  for  a  change  of  occupation specialty  after  three months  at  my  new job.  After  the orders  came back  which  assigned  my specialty  of  clerk typist  (company clerk),  I  received orders  to  go  to  Viet Nam.  After  a month  with  no  further notice  about  the  overseas assignment,  I  went  back  to  inquire  at  the  main  personnel office.       “ Don’t  call  us,  We’ll  call you! ”  I  was told.  I  did  what  I  was told,  and  “enjoyed”  the  bucolic life  in  the backwaters  of  South Carolina,  at  Ft. Jackson,  until  my enlistment expired.  By  this time,  I  had  acquired  my  first  vehicle—  a  Schwinn bicycle.  I  rode down  to  visit friends  outside  of  Orangeburg  one  weekend.  They were  not  at home,  so  I rode  further  down the road  toward  Denmark,  SC,  where  the  local  passenger trains  of  the  Seaboard Airline Railroad  stopped.       The  Silver Meteor,  Silver Star,  (and  Silver Comet—  to  Atlanta  &  NOLA),  were  express trains,  but  the  chicken bone specials,  such as  the  Sunland  and  Palmland,  stopped  at  every  hand switch  between  Columbia,  SC,  and  Savannah,  GA. A  hit-and-run  “ incident ” (This  is  the term  used  by  Peter Jennings,  when  he  corrected  the term:  “Accident,”  used  to  describe  the  airplane collision  with  the  second  World Trade Tower.) almost  amputated  my  left arm  when  a  pick-up truck  veered  off  the pavement  to  attack me  on  the shoulder  of  the road.  I  spent  the winter  in  the  Army hospital,  recovering from  my  broken arm  and  broken leg.  For  once,  I  was  on  the  steering end  of  this  proposition.  I  got  a pay raise  after three years of  service.  Got another pay raise when I was promoted to  SP-5,  three squares  and a flop  in a warmer climate than east Tennessee.       Finally  my new  First Sergeant inquired:  “ When are you getting out of  the service? ”  I replied in the incomprehensible jargon  that is used by pretentious bureaucrats today.  The First Sergeant called my previous First Sergeant,  who had returned to his earlier job  as head  of  the  personnel office  for  Fort Jackson.  Sgt. Davis  called me  and explained that  he was getting some heat  from the inquiries  about  my status,  and,  by the way,  when did I plan  to go home?       I was fat and happy,  well fed  in a warm climate,  banking the pay raise,  and waiting for spring.  We arranged for me  to get out  on the last day of  March.       I spent the night in my room in the barracks.  My Army buddy from Asheville came down and spent the night,  to ride back with me.  We woke up the next morning,  peeked out through the window blinds to see the reveille formation,  and went back to sleep.  When I returned from carrying my duffel bag outside,  I saw the company commander walking down the hall to inspect the barracks.  He asked me what I was doing there?  since he understood that I had been discharged the previous day.  I reminded him of our meeting where he had talked about the difficulty of getting and holding a job,  and the security of an Army career,  compared to the cold, cruel, civilian world.  Since I was standing there in the barracks,  wearing my Army costume,  he asked if I had re-enlisted?       I replied by asking if he was aware “ what day this is? ”       He was a sport.  We shook hands,  and I left.

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