Anyone familiar with the military should also be familiar with the acronym SNAFU. Quite simply, it stands for situation normal, all 'Ef'd' up. I suppose it fits non-military occupations but can't be as prevalent.

Drafted into the Army in 1971, I began basic training at Fort Knox, Kentucky on the 27th of November. On day one, I remember the following conversation, if that's what you called being screamed at by a Drill Sergeant, "All right, you can write Christmas off for 1971...put it behind you...your maggot asses are all mine." Funny, before training was over, we were called just about everything you could pair with maggot. Maggot breath, maggot excrement, maggot scum bags, and on ad infinitum.

Well, come December 22 the Army figured out there weren't going to be enough instructors around during Christmas to babysit a bunch of maggots, so we were told we would be able to go home. Better yet, it wasn't even going to count as vacation days. Here's where SNAFU comes in. There were no rental cars available and getting a plane ticket was a joke. My wife was staying with her parents in Richmond, Virginia which was six hundred miles from my training camp; too far for her to come pick me up. The only alternative was by bus.

I have nothing against buses, but other than the bus ride from the Atlanta, GA induction center to Fort Knox, I hadn't been on a bus since grade school. Sometimes you've just got to roll with the flow. This was one of those times.

Fort Knox had a bus terminal, and my ticket wasn't too bad. Fort Knox to Louisville KY to Cincinnati, OH to Charleston, WV to Richmond. With stops, the total time was twenty-eight hours, even a slow auto would take less than ten. But, hey, it was Christmas and I wanted to see my wife. Confounding the situation further, we had not been in boot camp long and all our civilian clothing was boxed up, so would have to wear Class-A uniforms. Think of an ill-fitting, wool, green suit and you'll get the picture. I see soldiers today wearing their neat-looking battle dress uniforms (BDU's). Not only neat but comfortable. A no-no in 1971.

The bus station on the Post was terrible. Too many guys going in too many directions. A big commotion when I first got there. Someone had punched a GI out in the bathroom and stole all his money. I doubt if the kid was eighteen. He was crying he wouldn't be able to go home. So, we passed a hat and managed to get up enough money to get him on his way.

I finally managed to get onto the bus to Louisville, which was packed. I did manage to push and jostle my way into getting an aisle seat. An old guy was sitting next to me and smelled like dirty socks, I'd been around dirty GIs for weeks, it seemed normal.

The trip to Louisville was short and I didn't have to get off the bus. The same bus would be going to Cincinnati after a short wait. Thankfully, a ton of people got off, so the bus wasn't so packed. I wound up with an empty seat next to me. Another part of my uniform that would come in handy was my overcoat. This was not ill-fitting. Rather, it was quite like an expensive dress overcoat. I own a beautiful black one now, and if you see me at a funeral and the temperature is less than forty, I'll be wearing it. It was going to be great to wrap up in like a blanket. When uniforms are issued, you also get a list of what each item costs. If you lose something, you have to replace it. The topcoat cost $69.50. A lot of money when you only make $294.65 per month.

Something you encounter in basic training is sleep deprivation. This is a tactic to break you down. What it also instills in you is the ability to sleep any time you can. I'm pretty sure I slept to Cincinnati.

When we arrived, I found out the next bus would not be leaving for three hours. It was late afternoon and all I'd eaten was a pack of crackers. Spotting a policeman in the terminal, I walked over and asked him whether there was a nice place to eat near the bus station. His reply, blunt. "Buddy, this station is in the absolute worse part of town. My strong recommendation is to not leave this building. There is a diner in the station." He pointed. "It's right over there. The food's okay. Hell, you're used to army chow. You might find it good." Perhaps he'd never been in the Army. The food, while not gourmet, was always hot and plentiful.

Heading over to the diner, an older man got up off the bench and touched my arm. He said, "Hey, soldier. Could you spare a couple of dollars for an old army vet? I haven't had anything to eat today."

I looked the man over. He didn't look like anyone currently in the military. His clothing was shabby but clean. A razor hadn't visited his face in several days. He walked with a slight limp. There was a whiff of alcohol around him. I said, "Look, friend, I'm afraid if I give you some money, you might buy booze and not food. Tell you what, I'm heading over to the diner. I'll treat you to dinner. My Christmas present to a fellow Army guy."

He shrugged his shoulders and followed me over. Looking at me, he said, "I've eaten here before, and if I were you, I'd stick with breakfast food. They serve it up all day. Hard to screw up eggs."

We walked in, I hung my overcoat on a coat rack by the door and we sat at a small table. He ordered the bacon, eggs, and hash brown special. I took his advice and ordered the same. We both had coffee.

After a few minutes of small talk, he asked, "Have you been to Nam yet?"

"No, I'm not even out of basic training at Fort Knox yet."

"Well, son, I would never advise you to desert the army, but do everything you can to stay out of war. Things go on there no man or woman ought to have to live through. It's horrible."

"You look too old for Vietnam and not old enough for WWII. Were you in Korea or something?"

A look of sadness spread across his face. "Yes, I was in the 7th Infantry Division in Korea. Are you familiar with them?"

"No, Sir. I'm not."

"Well, we were the primary army unit along with the 1st Marines, to be moved to the Chosin Reservoir to stop the advances of the Chinese Army We were moved in quickly and were not well equipped for our mission. We didn't have adequate winter clothing. Right now, it is colder in Cincinnati than I can remember. This is nothing compared to there. The ground was frozen. You couldn't even dig a foxhole without explosives or a bulldozer."

I was getting into his story and wanted to hear more. "What happened to you there?"

"Me and my best friend Eli Post were hunkered down in our foxhole. Because the ground was frozen, we couldn't dig it as deep as we'd have liked. We did have some sandbags and rocks surrounding the top. We were close to the top of one hill. We could see the Chinese on the next hill over."

"Were there a bunch of them?"

"Yes. Have you ever kicked the top off an anthill?"

"Sure."

"That's pretty much what it looked like. The Chinese were scrambling like ants down their hill and trying to come up ours. They would blow bugles before they advanced and sometimes, they'd just blow the damn things to annoy you or keep you awake. That's the day Eli died for me."

"Died for you? What did he do?"

"Nothing, he just died. We were sitting there just whispering and all of a sudden, I heard a sound like THUNK. I looked over at Eli and there was a bullet hole right through the middle of his helmet. I reached over to check his pulse. There was nothing. Eli was dead."

"What did you mean then that he died for you?"

"Eli was a big old boy. I managed to pull his pants and field jacket off and put them over my own. I believe I would have frozen to death without them. Two GIs in a foxhole near ours died during the night from the cold."

I was glad I'd finished my meal. Such a sad story.

The old man got up and said, "Look, I didn't want to ruin your appetite or anything. I'm sure you'll be just fine in the Army. Good luck to you and thanks for the dinner. By the way, Merry Christmas." He headed out and I asked for another coffee. Not in a hurry, I had more coffee and read the day's newspaper someone left. I paid the bill and got up to leave...No overcoat! I asked the waitress if she had seen who took it.

"She said, I'm pretty sure your friend took it."

I walked over to the coat rack to check if it might have fallen off. No such luck. Not proud of my language, but I said, "Well, Merry Fucking Christmas!"

At that moment, the policeman who'd been drinking coffee at the counter, stopped by and asked, "Is everything okay, Sir?"

"Not really, I bought dinner for an old man, and he walked out and stole my overcoat. I know for a fact it's going to cost me $69.50 and it's money I don't have."

The policeman said, "I recognized the old man. He comes in and panhandles from time to time. No telling when he'll be back in. He's been gone long enough we won't be able to find him today. If he does come back, we probably won't be able to arrest him or anything. He may not even have your overcoat with him. You're in the army at a tough time. I know most of the people in the diner. Let us take up a contribution to help you pay for the coat."

He did and they came up with thirty dollars. Not enough for a replacement, but a nice gesture. I did notice five came out of his pocket. "Here, son. Have safe travels and Merry Christmas." Everyone in the diner wished me Merry Christmas as well.

I think of this experience every year. A bunch of GIs at a bus station who had little money, coughed up enough to send a young man home. A bunch of folks in a blue-collar diner opened their pockets to help another young man pay for an overcoat. At every Christmas dinner, I will pray for the gentleman who stole my coat. I finally rationalized it was pretty damn cold in Cincinnati too. The old man gave a lot for his country, lost his best friend and fell on hard times. Next to him, I've been truly blessed.