Read Online Kid Comes Back by John R. Tunis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John R. Tunis
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myself and rested.”
They talked until lights out. The next morning Roy changed his tent to one in B Street, near Earl’s and closer to the loudspeaker. Nothing happened all day as he listened. The next morning was also without incident, and then suddenly at 4:30 in the afternoon, he sat up.
“Roster eighteen dash thirty. Private first class George Wolheim, four three eight six three nine one. Corporal Edward T. Meltzer, nine six four one seven one seven. Sergeant Roy Tucker, six four one eight five...”
He jumped from his cot, listening to those familiar words. “...Will report to the Operations Tent tomorrow at 0-eight hundred for processing.”
Well, here we go. I’m on the roster and it won’t be long now.
But everyone was nervous. The man in the next cot, a quiet, elderly man, suddenly burst out: “I’m worried about that physical. If you slip up, they’re likely to keep you here for weeks.” And an Air Corps boy remarked: “Don’t get mixed up, that’s the main thing. Don’t ask questions about your insurance or your back pay or anything. If you do, boy, you’re really here for life.”
“I hear they can hold you as essential if you use a typewriter or can add figures. Thank heaven, I can’t.”
They wouldn’t be likely to hold a ballplayer, Roy thought. But he shared in the general nervousness, and slept little that night.
It was cold and rainy the following morning. A strong northeast wind drove the rain in squally gusts across the field east of his tent, whipping at the canvas and pelting the tent roof noisily. Someone suggested it was the tail end of the hurricane that Florida was getting. They were all ready for breakfast half an hour too early, and when it was there, Roy found he had no appetite and was far from anxious to eat. He returned to his tent, awaiting the call for Group eighteen dash thirty. It came just before eight o’clock, and he hustled over to the Operations Tent, lining up in the mud and rain in a column of twos under a soldier guide, who first called the roll to be sure everyone was present. The chap next to Roy had been scratched from the roster three times for not showing up or arriving late, and as a consequence it had taken him three weeks to get back on again.
First they were marched to the Post Theatre, where with several other groups they were given a talk by the chaplain. “Please go directly to your homes. Lots of men from other parts of the country hang around New York and blow in their money. Then we have telephone calls from home about them. There are many pitfalls between Fort Dix and your home, remember that, boys.”
“Wish he’d give me the phone number of a couple of good pitfalls,” said a wag near Roy. But this was a serious thing, and Roy was far too nervous to laugh. They were marched next to the Counseling Building several blocks away, where as usual they waited for their records to arrive. Just before noon, Roy’s name was called, and he stepped forward to sit down across from a soldier at a small desk. The soldier looked over his records, checked them, asked what he had done in civilian life, and before Roy had finished explaining that he was a professional baseball player, out came the inevitable question.
“Say! You ain’t Roy Tucker of the Dodgers, are ya? Ya are? Well, we’ll hustle you through, boy. Them guys can use you out in the field right now.”
He went to work immediately on Roy’s records. “Any disabilities, fella? O.K. Insurance all set? Fine. Fill this out, Form A100, your work-record form. A job waiting? I’ll say, and do they need you over there in Ebbets Field!” The soldier grinned cheerfully.
Roy only wished he was as certain about that waiting job as his questioner. It was all finished in a few minutes, and next the gang marched to the clothing supply building, where he drew a blouse, shirt, trousers, and new shoes. In an adjoining room, a WAC sewed on the golden discharge emblem with the eagle, “the
They talked until lights out. The next morning Roy changed his tent to one in B Street, near Earl’s and closer to the loudspeaker. Nothing happened all day as he listened. The next morning was also without incident, and then suddenly at 4:30 in the afternoon, he sat up.
“Roster eighteen dash thirty. Private first class George Wolheim, four three eight six three nine one. Corporal Edward T. Meltzer, nine six four one seven one seven. Sergeant Roy Tucker, six four one eight five...”
He jumped from his cot, listening to those familiar words. “...Will report to the Operations Tent tomorrow at 0-eight hundred for processing.”
Well, here we go. I’m on the roster and it won’t be long now.
But everyone was nervous. The man in the next cot, a quiet, elderly man, suddenly burst out: “I’m worried about that physical. If you slip up, they’re likely to keep you here for weeks.” And an Air Corps boy remarked: “Don’t get mixed up, that’s the main thing. Don’t ask questions about your insurance or your back pay or anything. If you do, boy, you’re really here for life.”
“I hear they can hold you as essential if you use a typewriter or can add figures. Thank heaven, I can’t.”
They wouldn’t be likely to hold a ballplayer, Roy thought. But he shared in the general nervousness, and slept little that night.
It was cold and rainy the following morning. A strong northeast wind drove the rain in squally gusts across the field east of his tent, whipping at the canvas and pelting the tent roof noisily. Someone suggested it was the tail end of the hurricane that Florida was getting. They were all ready for breakfast half an hour too early, and when it was there, Roy found he had no appetite and was far from anxious to eat. He returned to his tent, awaiting the call for Group eighteen dash thirty. It came just before eight o’clock, and he hustled over to the Operations Tent, lining up in the mud and rain in a column of twos under a soldier guide, who first called the roll to be sure everyone was present. The chap next to Roy had been scratched from the roster three times for not showing up or arriving late, and as a consequence it had taken him three weeks to get back on again.
First they were marched to the Post Theatre, where with several other groups they were given a talk by the chaplain. “Please go directly to your homes. Lots of men from other parts of the country hang around New York and blow in their money. Then we have telephone calls from home about them. There are many pitfalls between Fort Dix and your home, remember that, boys.”
“Wish he’d give me the phone number of a couple of good pitfalls,” said a wag near Roy. But this was a serious thing, and Roy was far too nervous to laugh. They were marched next to the Counseling Building several blocks away, where as usual they waited for their records to arrive. Just before noon, Roy’s name was called, and he stepped forward to sit down across from a soldier at a small desk. The soldier looked over his records, checked them, asked what he had done in civilian life, and before Roy had finished explaining that he was a professional baseball player, out came the inevitable question.
“Say! You ain’t Roy Tucker of the Dodgers, are ya? Ya are? Well, we’ll hustle you through, boy. Them guys can use you out in the field right now.”
He went to work immediately on Roy’s records. “Any disabilities, fella? O.K. Insurance all set? Fine. Fill this out, Form A100, your work-record form. A job waiting? I’ll say, and do they need you over there in Ebbets Field!” The soldier grinned cheerfully.
Roy only wished he was as certain about that waiting job as his questioner. It was all finished in a few minutes, and next the gang marched to the clothing supply building, where he drew a blouse, shirt, trousers, and new shoes. In an adjoining room, a WAC sewed on the golden discharge emblem with the eagle, “the
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