by Linda L. Tuttle "Yes sir" "No sir" The only reply allowed as I was drafted into my fathers Army at birth, without consent or legal representation. A drill sergeant, he held our house together by rules and regulations posted before I could read but pointed out to me with long straight fingers and tight white knuckles. Roaring he demanded respect as mother and I stood stiffly at attention. Roll call at 0600, dinner at 1700, house inspection every Friday at 1300. He barked commands in rapid order, firing words with his machine gun voice aimed at us the enemy. Finally I was granted a dishonorable discharge at eighteen, having disappointed him in any number of ways. |