Zoofing along in the Belgian taxi from a remote train station with my "letter of recommendation" tucked away and my little overnight bag at my side, into the woods we went, we went. Into the woods we went. Finally, utterly disoriented I was dropped off at the first motel I'd seen since I left the States. It was indeed in the middle of a darkish woods, made up of little cabins and seemingly uninhabited except by me and the old gent who checked me in.
I asked about the Army base in my best Dutch (which is to Flemish what New England English is to Mississippian English, approximately). The Belgians, like the Dutch, are multilingual, or at least those who interact with tourists and travelers are. Fortunately I speak some French. This old guy wouldn't deign to speak to me in Flemish. Clearly a proud Walloon. He explained that I'd have to walk to the base. But did he say it was a half hour or an hour-and-a-half? (And no, my young friends, I could not "just google it." We're talking 1971.)
It was a long, dark night in my little, dark cabin. I was glad that I'd decided that I'd include a florid phrase in my doctor's letter, about the patient having a "prison-like dependency on an older man." And trust me, the malarkey only got richer from there.
Knowing I'd be examined all over, I was extra scrupulous with my morning ablutions. I put on the only butch, straight, boring underwear I owned and checked out of my dreary motel. This time I spoke to the gent at the front desk in veddy propah English. He looked startled for a moment, but answered following suit. Ah. The base was a thirty minute walk. I'd get there early, but that was fine. And I love walking.
The Army base, also in the middle of the dense woods, had a ten-foot chain-link fence surrounding it. Showing my summons to the gate guards, I was given a map and walked in. Amazing. A medium-large hospital, an American-style supermarket, a school, a church... why they even had a bowling alley. Almost like a Disney attraction. Americaland!
I had tried to tame my head of long curly hair with an "extra-hold" gel product, but walking past a storefront, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and saw why I was getting some stares. Guess I should have gone for the extra-extra. Wow. A bookstore. Good place to while away the time before I needed to report for inspection. And I love browsing. Magazines and US newspapers in abundance. Walls of paperback books on display. Women and young folks shopping. A family-oriented army base.
Then I came to a corner of the store decked out with a couple of stanchions like this.
To the Men's Room to wet down my hair in a futile attempt to tame the hippie-dippy. And then to the hospital for my physical. Multiple medical history forms to fill out. Checked by a dentist. Checked with x-rays. Disrobe. Get dressed. Disrobe. Get dressed. Lunch break. The lunch place was decorated in the reds and yellows of a MacDonalds, but no logo in sight. After lunch, one last form to complete before one last physical exam. I seemed to be the only draftee at the place, so no waiting in a long line of guys all in our skivvies. Just little ol' me.
There it was on the back of that "last" form. The dreaded "box" that one was supposed to check if one had ever had "a homosexual experience." Throughout the day my plan dictated that I play the eager recruit. A bit shy, but aiming to please. I gingerly checked the Yes box. And then, according to plan, feebly erased the Yes and firmly checked the No box. Who me? What are you suggesting, Sir?
Final physical in a small room with no ceiling. More of a cubicle with a door and exam table. I checked out as a prime specimen. The 40-something Army doctor was cordial and, gee, I was an eager beaver. He told me I could get dressed again. He was glancing over that last form. I pretended to be utterly absorbed with my shirt buttons. A tad nervously, he inquired about the smudging (fudging?) on the "homosexual experience" question. On cue I went red in the face and stammered that I'd just made a mistake. Nothing to see, folks. Move along.
Ah, he smiled, that's fine then. Looks like we're all done, son. As he was starting to exit the cubicle, my timing sharp as a Cukor actor, I said to his back, "Oh. Um. Ah. Sir?" He turns and smiles. "Um. I think I'm supposed to give you this," pulling out the plain white, sealed envelop, a blank look on my face. A look that said "Gee whiz. Don't know why, but my doc told me to give this to someone at my physical."
The doctor's face looked puzzled. He opened the envelop with care. As he saw the letterhead, he turned to read the letter in a way that I couldn't see it. I sat calmly on the exam table and tied my shoelaces. Now it was his turn to go quite red. He glanced up a few times with an increasingly horrified expression, a barely concealed "Get me outta here!" look all over his face. I just gave him my best American smile.
Stammering, he excused himself with an "I'll be right back." And then he apparently went into an adjoining cubicle to make a call. I sat there hearing every word he said. No ceilings. He was calling to the psych ward. Using a numeric code word, he said in supposedly hushed tones that he had a 1297 here and when could they see me?
Moments later he returned and did his best to plaster a smile on his face. "We're going to need you to go upstairs to see one more doctor. They don't have time so late in the afternoon, so we'll need you to come back in the morning..."
That's when I got to pull out the stops. My whole body started to quiver, then shake. I stuttered pitifully, "But I've already been down here over night! I...I...I have to go home now. I have to go home!" And then, ah yes, dear reader, even my tears came on cue. I went from eager All-American soldier-to-be to nervous-breakdown quaking wreck in under twenty seconds.
This time the good doctor backed out of the room. He said he'd be right back. Another hushed call, the poor guy practically hyperventilating. I mean, there's nothing quite as disconcerting as realizing that the nice young guy whose nuts you've just been cupping is utterly nuts. Not just a homo, but a PSYCHO-HOMO!
He returned, keeping a good distance between us. I was still in "gay boy on the verge of a nervous breakdown" body quaking mode. "It's alright. It's all okay. You may leave now. You can go home."
And so I did. You wouldn't believe how quickly I received my IV-F status mailed from Selective Service in Boston. They must have used a carrier eagle. I'm still waiting for my Oscar.