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I’ll never forget that day in early 1951 when I told my family goodbye and got on a Greyhound bus for a trip to Louisville and my entry into the U.S. Navy.
That entry included a physical before being ushered to the Naval Station Great Lakes training center in Illinois.
But something happened during that physical that almost stopped my tour of duty in the Navy before it started. After completing the physical, a Navy doctor said he was sorry, but I was on my way back to Owensboro.
“Why doctor?” I asked. “What went wrong?”
The doctor said he was very sorry but my test indicated I suffered with borderline diabetes.
I told the doctor it was important that I be accepted into the Navy because there was the possibility the Army might take me, even with borderline diabetes.
Since it was about lunch time, the doctor told me to go have some lunch and drink a large glass of milk with it.
I did as told, was given the test again, and the doctor turned me loose for Navy life.
I had never heard off a health condition such as that, but I had to live with it for the four years I was in the Navy.
On being discharged, I continued wondering about borderline diabetes, and I decided to look up Dr. John S. Oldham and ask him.
“That’s a like lot like almost being pregnant,” he said.
But the diabetes thing was not my only problem with getting to remain in the Navy. Early in my boot camp training it was discovered I could not swim. That came when we were having swimming tests, and I had to admit I was not a swimmer.
“Tell you what sailor boy. You’re going to take the test, and if you don’t pass it you’re going home,” one of the instructors said.
With that I jumped off a platform into the corner of the pool. The goal in passing was to swim to the other corner, take a left and swim the length of the pool.
So, I jumped into the water, went under, struggled back up to the surface and duck-paddled my way to the other corner making the turn, I duck-paddled for about another 19 feet and went under.
Then it became a matter of making it to the other end or going home.
On the bottom, I struggled another few feet and started the drowning process. Watching me all of the way, an instructor with a grappling hook grabbed me by the back of my swimming shorts and pulled me to safety.
“Tell you what,” the instructor said. “When somebody tries to pass a swimming test as hard as you did, I’m giving them a passing grade.”
I never did fall to borderline diabetes, never did try swimming again and never did need to come back to life again.
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