I was enrolled in the army. April arrived and it was time to start my army career. I cleaned my room and prepared it to be empty for a long time.
I took an early train and proudly showed off my military issue ticket. The conductor looked at it and said,
“You are too young for all of that – go back home to mother.”
I may have been too young, but not the youngest. The youngest recruit, Rune Johansson, had the cot above mine. He was one day younger.
Millions of young men have joined the army over thousands of years, all have probably had about the same experiences. When taught how to say “Attention” with the right intonation, I tried it the way it had been written in comic books, in a very soft and flat voice. That was the first time – of many, many - when I, out of innocence and lack of life skills, drew laughter.
Millions of young men have joined the army over thousands of years, all have probably had about the same experiences. When taught how to say “Attention” with the right intonation, I tried it the way it had been written in comic books, in a very soft and flat voice. That was the first time – of many, many - when I, out of innocence and lack of life skills, drew laughter.
As new recruits, representing the king and the country, we weren't trusted to leave the lodgings for the first four weeks. The indoctrination was incessant. One important activity for all infantry soldiers was to take cover on the ground. I tried to argue with the officer:
“But it's wet.”
“Get down.”
“Now I am wet.”
“Yes, and so you will be for the rest of the day.” - I was wet and cold.
........................
The bathrooms had no privacy at all and the mandatory morning – and sometimes evening – showers had only a choice of one temperature, cold. The regiment, about 200 years old at this time, housed about 1,000 young men, most between 17 and 21 years old. We were divided between four 1912 vintage brick buildings. I, and all the other 23 in my dorm, had enrolled as aspirants, NCO material with a chance to continue to become an officer. (Only one did become an officer, eventually.)
........................
The shooting lessons started immediately. That was the easiest to grasp of all the activities we had to learn. My past shooting experiences made me pass every test with flying colours.
Not so my academic record. A call on one of the first mornings:
“How many do not have a High school graduation diploma? Hands up.”
All of us who held up our hands, me included, were in the stupid group. We had to take two mandatory evenings of classes every week. If that wasn't enough we also had one weekly military evening exercise, usually after dark.
My body protested and I was totally exhausted at first. I slept all I could when not on duty. I even learned to have lunch and then sleep 15 minutes before the afternoon lineup. My slightly underweight and not very well-trained body really took a beating. I was clearly the weakest in the group. That didn't exclude me from anything, except from carrying the assembled machine gun in the field.
......................
The exercise grounds were opened as a park for the public on weekends. You'd occasionally run across civilians exercising, biking or just walking.
I met a girl, my age, pushing a baby in a carriage. We struck up a conversation and I learned where she had just been, in a home for unmarried women in Karlshamn. That was our common point for the beginning of a short but intense relationship. We used to meet Saturdays and Sundays for a walk in the park, pushing her baby. We could hide away in the park, finding privacy in the forested area, and even share a cup of cocoa at the military canteen when it was open for civilians on weekends.
I always used a condom. No babies for me.
I met a girl, my age, pushing a baby in a carriage. We struck up a conversation and I learned where she had just been, in a home for unmarried women in Karlshamn. That was our common point for the beginning of a short but intense relationship. We used to meet Saturdays and Sundays for a walk in the park, pushing her baby. We could hide away in the park, finding privacy in the forested area, and even share a cup of cocoa at the military canteen when it was open for civilians on weekends.
I always used a condom. No babies for me.
That was good for my status – I had a girlfriend and a baby, at 16!
I basked in my newfound status for as long as it lasted. She got a new boyfriend later that summer and disappeared from my life.
...............
Eventually, all of us, new recruits, were allowed to go home. We were strongly encouraged to wear our uniforms in private too. I travelled home on the train, proud, in my fresh uniform. Since every young man eventually had to serve his time, there was absolutely no stigma attached to the uniform. I often went to the public dances dressed in uniform.
...................
Even though we were infantry, foot soldiers, we were expected how to drive many military vehicles, up to a five-tonne truck. This was the summer when I got my driver's license, at age 17, far too young by Swedish law.
We started out with one instructor and four pupils in a large passenger car. I happened to be the first driver. 100 metres from the front entrance a young lady on a bicycle crossed the road right in front of us.
I immediately stomped down the clutch and the brake, something no untrained driver would do. The lady gave me a casual look and continued as if nothing had happened. Then I put the gear shifter back in first gear to continue.
“Stop. You already know how to drive, no more training for you.”
My father's driver training when I was 13 had paid off. The instructor threatened to report me to the police and I got no more driving instructions.
I was sweating bullets the day we were to pass our practical exam before a state inspector. I passed without any comments.
Ironically enough, the very official and real driver's license I received, covering both trucks, cars and motorcycles said, with very small letters on the bottom; “Only for military vehicles.” I didn't always follow that rule. I was stopped in a routine control once, It was dark and the policeman, reading my license with a flashlight, said nothing and returned it to me.
Now I knew, my not-yet-valid license was legal in the dark.
The military training was intense and we traveled wide and far to partake in various military exercises.
One week was for learning how to handle explosives. We blew up so many things. An old bridge, steel bars, made trenches, and used up lots of different explosives. The scariest exercise was how to enter a house, not through the doors, but by blowing new holes in the walls.
All went well to the end. Our ears were still aching from a week's full of explosions on Saturday morning. All left was to clear up and collect all the remaining explosives for disposal.
As you can well imagine, we couldn't bring any left-over explosives back to the barracks. They all had to be blown up. As it happened, a farmer living nearby had asked us if we could straighten his road. That would be great for using up our leftovers.
The main obstacle was a man-high boulder. We used all our newly learned skills and placed many charges in well-chosen places. With an hour to go until the weekend started, we set it off.
The explosion was well muffled and we felt rather good about the whole affair until we walked back for an inspection. Deem of our surprise, the boulder was blown to smithereens and there was a metre-deep gouge in the road.
No going home until we had brought out our military mini-shovels and filled the hole again, making it into a perfect roadbed. That little task took us several hours. I got home very late that Saturday.
Now I knew, my not-yet-valid license was legal in the dark.
The military training was intense and we traveled wide and far to partake in various military exercises.
One week was for learning how to handle explosives. We blew up so many things. An old bridge, steel bars, made trenches, and used up lots of different explosives. The scariest exercise was how to enter a house, not through the doors, but by blowing new holes in the walls.
All went well to the end. Our ears were still aching from a week's full of explosions on Saturday morning. All left was to clear up and collect all the remaining explosives for disposal.
As you can well imagine, we couldn't bring any left-over explosives back to the barracks. They all had to be blown up. As it happened, a farmer living nearby had asked us if we could straighten his road. That would be great for using up our leftovers.
The main obstacle was a man-high boulder. We used all our newly learned skills and placed many charges in well-chosen places. With an hour to go until the weekend started, we set it off.
The explosion was well muffled and we felt rather good about the whole affair until we walked back for an inspection. Deem of our surprise, the boulder was blown to smithereens and there was a metre-deep gouge in the road.
No going home until we had brought out our military mini-shovels and filled the hole again, making it into a perfect roadbed. That little task took us several hours. I got home very late that Saturday.
I spent a total of 21 months in the military. At the end of year one, we were all promoted to corporal. Our first year had been mandatory, anything beyond that would be as an employee.
Corporal 214 Lindvall, I-11 infantry regiment, June 1958
The salary was by all measures considered to be too great, that it would give young men a disincentive to continue their education. Needless to say, considering what other options I had, I signed up.
On return after a short break, we were now assigned to be room supervisors for the newly drafted recruits. I was assigned to a room with a group of soldiers destined for the field artillery.
These young men were all selected for their great physical strength, cannon are heavy beasts to move around. Here I was, little scrawny me among some of the strongest young men in the country.
I almost trembled with fear as I approached my new duty as a room supervisor. Much to my pleasure, I found out that almost all of these guys, all burly farm boys, were warm and kind.
At least one had brought a present, or two, for us all to share. Bedbugs and lice. We were all scratching during the day and as the nights went by more and more of us woke up with bloody bites in the morning.
This called for disinfection, military-style. Everything was emptied out, all our bedding was turned into the laundry and we had to sit down and pick louse out of our loose gear.
All of us had to go the sauna together and put on newly washed clothes as we came out.
The mattresses were a different issue. We all had straw mattresses. They were all emptied in a big pile in the yard and set afire. The wind picked up and our straw-fire shot high.
The city fire department arrived, looking for the source of all the smoke and cinders, but soon left.
............
Every man in "the service" knows about many surprises that come your way, you are drafted young while your minds are still not fully formed. Then it is easier to turn you into a trained killing machine.
The Swedish army had been in a shooting war since 1812 so you cannot exactly say that we had any deep traditions of warfare to draw from.
Our officers were, as all officers are, trained by the book, learning from all the wars of recent times. That may not have transported very well to our days.
We were taught how to dig a trench and a deep shelter, WW1 style. That was quite an exercise. The shelter was to be built on an artillery shooting range.
First, we got a briefing from the disposal group on how well they had searched our little piece of land to assure us that there was no unexploded munition from any earlier exercise.
Then we proceeded to chop down some good size trees, prepared them, and erected a shelter frame from the logs some 6 metres underground. That deep hole took several days to finish.
In total, we were over a hundred young men working on this labour of love. Our shelter was backfilled and ready to show off about a week later.
A general and some of his staff came by, they climbed down and inspected it all.
"Good work, now show how good it is."
A day later a heavy howitzer was put in place and a few shells were lobbied off on a very reduced propellant charge. They were clustered such that at least one would go off over or near our shelter.
Our whole regiment, probably a thousand men were standing on a hillside about a kilometre away. This was a frightening spectacle. To see a war movie was nothing like seeing real artillery so close up.
The artillery controller reported that all missiles had exploded, there were no duds lying about. We were free to return for inspection.
Our so neatly constructed shelter was now a shambles, it had taken an artillery hit a few metres away. The entranceway was almost filled in but the basic shelter, large enough for a dozen men, still stood.
This concluded the experiment, we learned. This was an exercise to prove that the field manual was workable. I still don't know why we did all the work, I have since seen dozens of drawing for WW 1 shelters, built by both sides.
.....................
We had one exercise when we were to shoot and dynamite our way into a house.
That is quite a story. I have written a short article for the Toronto Star about that. The link is at the end of this story.
......................................
I served only a few years after the end of the last world war. Sweden still had huge stores of war materials. Lots of it was aging out and had to be disposed of soon.
One item of which we had a practically unlimited supply of was small arms ammunition. Every time we went out for a shooting exercise, the stores-boys included an extra box.
The net result was that we were, in truth, encouraged to shoot as many bullets as we could in any given exercise. We practiced with our 6.5 mm model 1896 Mauser rifles until our shoulders ached, but many became really good at sharpshooting, me included.
The other regulation sidearm was a submachine gun, Karl Gustav model 1945. Now, you cannot really do any precision shooting over 100 metres with a nine mm bullet, but they were effective at closer range.
Remember, this was in very disciplined military training so not a shot was fired that could endanger any of us. Still, instead of shooting a short burst, nobody cared if a 36-round magazine was emptied in a few seconds, we had more boxes nearby.
Shooting with the pistol, we soon learned what a ridiculous weapon that is. You would have to be really lucky to hit anything smaller than a barn door at ten metres.
I did well in shooting and even got a prize for being really good with a pistol. Go figure.
In truth, I think that all that shooting gave all of us a very real respect for guns. In truth, I have never even put the tip of my little finger on a gun since I left the army. I fear what a gun can do.
Still, the law applied. The guy who brought one submachine gun and ammunition home to his father's farm didn't fare well. He had gone out in the forest on a quiet Sunday and done some target shooting on his own.
The local constabulary showed up. He was court marshaled and spent some time in military jail.
Ironically enough, he was in the slammer at the same time as our platoon did guard duty.
We weren't nice to him. Poor guy.
All of us had to have two weeks of some rudimentary first aid instruction, not as in-depth as the medics but still very educational. The lessons learned there have served me well in life.
This included the worst I have ever seen; The shooting of a pig.
A newly slaughtered pig, still steaming warm, was brought in from a nearby abattoir and laid on a platform for us all to see. We were about 100 in the room.
We got some education on the anatomy of a pig and then we were to see this demonstration.
An officer produced a 9 mm submachine gun and shot the pig in three places.
We reacted differently. One fainted. several threw up right then and there. I remember standing frozen in my place.
The whole scene imprinted in my memory so well that I sometimes relive it in my nightmares, over 60 years later.
Why we had to see this goes beyond my understanding. Perhaps we had a particularly ambitious officer who arranged this. I have never met a Swede who has seen this demonstration. In any case, here was a good reason not to shoot a living being, your organs split open...(!)
''''''''''''''''''''''''
The Swedish army had some 100,000 recruits at any one time, our field exercises were grand with huge troop movements closely scheduled and organized. We, the soldiers didn't know or understand much, our job was to follow orders.
- To travel all night on the flatbed of a truck, stop and set camp in the rain.
- To bring out our fording boats and cross a minor river. It seemed that at least one of us would fall in the water and have to be hauled out, totally soaked.
- To stand guard, to stand guard a little more and then stand guard again...
- To march through the dark forest, soaking wet in the rain.
- To be on patrol at night, forbidden to be near a road or a fence, when the only sure path was to follow a creek. The best way not to lose the creek was to walk in it.
Sometimes our wonderful 20-person tents with a good size stove didn't make it. At those times we had to sleep on branches, wrapped up in our greatcoats. A soldier's best friend is not always his weapon, for us, it was the greatcoat and the green raincoat.
Did I say that it rained and we were all wet and cold?
No, that is not true, we had some summer excursions in warm and dry weather, a true delight, and times to remember when the fog or the wet snow surrounded us.
Swedish winters have snow and cold. Swedish soldiers have to be taught how to fight in snow and cold.
The whole regiment, some 1,000 of us, were sent north, to near the arctic circle for winter training.
It was hard for us southerners, not really accustomed to skiing all day long. The comfort of having tractor-drawn trailers with our heavy gear wasn't available in deep snow. We weren't just skiing, we had to pull sleds with our gear.
All told, it was a great experience and we were less cold than one would imagine, dressed in white fur coats and fur hats. Sure, standing on guard was tough but somewhat relieved by the huge military issue straw overshoes.
The most memorable events, of many, were the 20-hour train trips coming and going. Alcohol was strictly forbidden, of course, but many had field flasks filled with vodka instead of water. Many arrived at the end station with quite a bit of hangover.
On the return to our barracks in Växjö we had to change trains. We got off around 2 am and lined up on the platform waiting for our chartered train to take us the last hour-long trip.
No train, nothing.
Finally, two bus-sized day liners chowed up. It was minus 20 C and the insides were just as cold. If there is a record for how many soldiers you could load into a day liner, we broke it, practically sitting on top of each other.
On arrival to Växjö, we still had a few kilometres to walk. Deem of our horror when we approached the barracks, the window in our dorm was wide open, and had been open for almost a month.
The heater had frozen but not burst. We had no choice but to lie down to find some sleep as best we could. I remember sleeping in the corridor, it was just a little bit warmer there.
It took a couple of days for our dorm to emerge from its deep freeze, once the plumber had been in and thawed the frozen copper supply pipe with a welding torch. Thank heaven for copper pipes, they don't always crack open when they freeze.
................
I may have had a somewhat skinny body, but there was nothing wrong with my lungs. There was really only one activity, other than target shooting, where I excelled. - Riding a bicycle. You carry yourself and the appointed amount of gear and - off you go.
We had occasional 80 km marches, they were tough but I always stayed with my troop. After all the speed was constant, three to five kilometres per hour, depending on weather and the amount of gear carried.
The bicycle races were different. You still had a lot of gear but the speed was yours to set. Of course, the winner was always a true athlete. But - eight or ten hours on a bike sorted out many. I was never fast but I just kept going. Once I was No. three of 1,000 cyclists on a day-long ride.
That was probably the proudest moment in my short military career. I can still bicycle quite far.
But, once, the bicycle may have become the beginning to the end of my military service.
A very efficient way to move troops fast and without tiring them out is to tow them. 20 soldiers, or so, each held on to a rope, normally towed by a tractor at about 30 km/h. With a bit of practice, you learned to hang on uphill and brake downhill, never letting the tow rope go slack.
That was not always easy if you were towed by a Jeep. It had far less power and the driver needed to shift gears now and then to keep the speed up. Also, a Jeep didn't have a speed governor and could really take off downhill.
Combine all that and you can visualize the rest. We came over a hilltop and the Jeep speeded up downhill. The driver took the foot off the accelerator to shift gears and - the tow rope slacked momentarily. Once the engine was engaged again the tow rope snapped up, lifting several bikes off the ground.
The resulting pile-up included at least two totally destroyed bicycles, two men with broken arms, several others had been severely scratched and were bleeding.
I dug myself out from under the heap and - couldn't walk. My knee had been scraped naked, clear to the bone. I still carry the scar.
The two guys with broken arms were back with their comrades the next day, I had to stay in the military hospital for a few days after my skin graft. I was still not a good walker and had to participate as an observer for a couple of weeks.
This was a terrible time. I may not have been the most enthusiastic solder of all, but I still liked to be part of the troop.
Now I was a nobody, unable to keep up. I had to sleep with the kitchen crew. Nice as they were, I wasn't one of them. I don't think that I have ever been depressed in my entire life, neither before nor after, but walking around, just looking, mostly alone, in the cold fall rain was not a happy time.
One item of which we had a practically unlimited supply of was small arms ammunition. Every time we went out for a shooting exercise, the stores-boys included an extra box.
The net result was that we were, in truth, encouraged to shoot as many bullets as we could in any given exercise. We practiced with our 6.5 mm model 1896 Mauser rifles until our shoulders ached, but many became really good at sharpshooting, me included.
The other regulation sidearm was a submachine gun, Karl Gustav model 1945. Now, you cannot really do any precision shooting over 100 metres with a nine mm bullet, but they were effective at closer range.
Remember, this was in very disciplined military training so not a shot was fired that could endanger any of us. Still, instead of shooting a short burst, nobody cared if a 36-round magazine was emptied in a few seconds, we had more boxes nearby.
Shooting with the pistol, we soon learned what a ridiculous weapon that is. You would have to be really lucky to hit anything smaller than a barn door at ten metres.
I did well in shooting and even got a prize for being really good with a pistol. Go figure.
In truth, I think that all that shooting gave all of us a very real respect for guns. In truth, I have never even put the tip of my little finger on a gun since I left the army. I fear what a gun can do.
Still, the law applied. The guy who brought one submachine gun and ammunition home to his father's farm didn't fare well. He had gone out in the forest on a quiet Sunday and done some target shooting on his own.
The local constabulary showed up. He was court marshaled and spent some time in military jail.
Ironically enough, he was in the slammer at the same time as our platoon did guard duty.
We weren't nice to him. Poor guy.
All of us had to have two weeks of some rudimentary first aid instruction, not as in-depth as the medics but still very educational. The lessons learned there have served me well in life.
This included the worst I have ever seen; The shooting of a pig.
A newly slaughtered pig, still steaming warm, was brought in from a nearby abattoir and laid on a platform for us all to see. We were about 100 in the room.
We got some education on the anatomy of a pig and then we were to see this demonstration.
An officer produced a 9 mm submachine gun and shot the pig in three places.
We reacted differently. One fainted. several threw up right then and there. I remember standing frozen in my place.
The whole scene imprinted in my memory so well that I sometimes relive it in my nightmares, over 60 years later.
Why we had to see this goes beyond my understanding. Perhaps we had a particularly ambitious officer who arranged this. I have never met a Swede who has seen this demonstration. In any case, here was a good reason not to shoot a living being, your organs split open...(!)
''''''''''''''''''''''''
The Swedish army had some 100,000 recruits at any one time, our field exercises were grand with huge troop movements closely scheduled and organized. We, the soldiers didn't know or understand much, our job was to follow orders.
- To travel all night on the flatbed of a truck, stop and set camp in the rain.
- To bring out our fording boats and cross a minor river. It seemed that at least one of us would fall in the water and have to be hauled out, totally soaked.
- To stand guard, to stand guard a little more and then stand guard again...
- To march through the dark forest, soaking wet in the rain.
- To be on patrol at night, forbidden to be near a road or a fence, when the only sure path was to follow a creek. The best way not to lose the creek was to walk in it.
Sometimes our wonderful 20-person tents with a good size stove didn't make it. At those times we had to sleep on branches, wrapped up in our greatcoats. A soldier's best friend is not always his weapon, for us, it was the greatcoat and the green raincoat.
Did I say that it rained and we were all wet and cold?
No, that is not true, we had some summer excursions in warm and dry weather, a true delight, and times to remember when the fog or the wet snow surrounded us.
Swedish winters have snow and cold. Swedish soldiers have to be taught how to fight in snow and cold.
The whole regiment, some 1,000 of us, were sent north, to near the arctic circle for winter training.
It was hard for us southerners, not really accustomed to skiing all day long. The comfort of having tractor-drawn trailers with our heavy gear wasn't available in deep snow. We weren't just skiing, we had to pull sleds with our gear.
All told, it was a great experience and we were less cold than one would imagine, dressed in white fur coats and fur hats. Sure, standing on guard was tough but somewhat relieved by the huge military issue straw overshoes.
The most memorable events, of many, were the 20-hour train trips coming and going. Alcohol was strictly forbidden, of course, but many had field flasks filled with vodka instead of water. Many arrived at the end station with quite a bit of hangover.
On the return to our barracks in Växjö we had to change trains. We got off around 2 am and lined up on the platform waiting for our chartered train to take us the last hour-long trip.
No train, nothing.
Finally, two bus-sized day liners chowed up. It was minus 20 C and the insides were just as cold. If there is a record for how many soldiers you could load into a day liner, we broke it, practically sitting on top of each other.
On arrival to Växjö, we still had a few kilometres to walk. Deem of our horror when we approached the barracks, the window in our dorm was wide open, and had been open for almost a month.
The heater had frozen but not burst. We had no choice but to lie down to find some sleep as best we could. I remember sleeping in the corridor, it was just a little bit warmer there.
It took a couple of days for our dorm to emerge from its deep freeze, once the plumber had been in and thawed the frozen copper supply pipe with a welding torch. Thank heaven for copper pipes, they don't always crack open when they freeze.
................
I may have had a somewhat skinny body, but there was nothing wrong with my lungs. There was really only one activity, other than target shooting, where I excelled. - Riding a bicycle. You carry yourself and the appointed amount of gear and - off you go.
We had occasional 80 km marches, they were tough but I always stayed with my troop. After all the speed was constant, three to five kilometres per hour, depending on weather and the amount of gear carried.
The bicycle races were different. You still had a lot of gear but the speed was yours to set. Of course, the winner was always a true athlete. But - eight or ten hours on a bike sorted out many. I was never fast but I just kept going. Once I was No. three of 1,000 cyclists on a day-long ride.
That was probably the proudest moment in my short military career. I can still bicycle quite far.
But, once, the bicycle may have become the beginning to the end of my military service.
A very efficient way to move troops fast and without tiring them out is to tow them. 20 soldiers, or so, each held on to a rope, normally towed by a tractor at about 30 km/h. With a bit of practice, you learned to hang on uphill and brake downhill, never letting the tow rope go slack.
That was not always easy if you were towed by a Jeep. It had far less power and the driver needed to shift gears now and then to keep the speed up. Also, a Jeep didn't have a speed governor and could really take off downhill.
Combine all that and you can visualize the rest. We came over a hilltop and the Jeep speeded up downhill. The driver took the foot off the accelerator to shift gears and - the tow rope slacked momentarily. Once the engine was engaged again the tow rope snapped up, lifting several bikes off the ground.
The resulting pile-up included at least two totally destroyed bicycles, two men with broken arms, several others had been severely scratched and were bleeding.
I dug myself out from under the heap and - couldn't walk. My knee had been scraped naked, clear to the bone. I still carry the scar.
The two guys with broken arms were back with their comrades the next day, I had to stay in the military hospital for a few days after my skin graft. I was still not a good walker and had to participate as an observer for a couple of weeks.
This was a terrible time. I may not have been the most enthusiastic solder of all, but I still liked to be part of the troop.
Now I was a nobody, unable to keep up. I had to sleep with the kitchen crew. Nice as they were, I wasn't one of them. I don't think that I have ever been depressed in my entire life, neither before nor after, but walking around, just looking, mostly alone, in the cold fall rain was not a happy time.
I applied for an honorable discharge. It was granted.
.....................
Here is the story about the house attack that I mentioned earlier:
Here is the story about the house attack that I mentioned earlier:
..................................
Once back in Karlshamn I was employed to pump gas from the first day home. That first day a customer came in that was, unbelievable but true, my ex-commanding officer.
"Bengt, you made a bad choice, you would have done so much better in the army."
I didn't know then, it still took a few years for that to be true but I learned a lot more, soon.
If you are interested, you can read about how I sailed around the globe before my 20th birthday here:
http://attvaxaupp.blogspot.ca/2017/05/bengt-19.html
Once back in Karlshamn I was employed to pump gas from the first day home. That first day a customer came in that was, unbelievable but true, my ex-commanding officer.
"Bengt, you made a bad choice, you would have done so much better in the army."
I didn't know then, it still took a few years for that to be true but I learned a lot more, soon.
If you are interested, you can read about how I sailed around the globe before my 20th birthday here:
http://attvaxaupp.blogspot.ca/2017/05/bengt-19.html
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