Mission impossible: Finding an Army friend

As a newly minted Aspie (my find-out year was 2016), I’m starting to get a handle on who — and how — I am.

Like why I’m not interested in reading fiction.

And why my wake-up routine (pill-taking, teeth-brushing, bed-making, mirror-staring) must always be in the same order.

And why I was completely unable to make a friend at a rare time when I really, really tried to have one.

I graduated from Virginia Tech in 1971, two years before the all-volunteer Army was established. Unlucky guys with low draft numbers (as determined by a nationwide ping-pong-ball lottery based on birthdates) faced a mandatory OD-green experience unless you could get a deferment (I heard of a fellow who shot off two toes so he would flunk the physical) or were willing to chuck the U.S. and move to Canada.

My path of least commitment was to join the Reserves which required a weekend’s drill each month and two-week summer camps for six years.

The Vietnam War was becoming more unpopular by the day, and public trust in the military was at an all-time low. Servicemen were often heckled (and spit on) if they wore their uniforms in public.

It was against this backdrop that I left my Abingdon, Va., home for Fort Leonard Wood, Mo, as the sun rose on Sept. 3, 1971. Our group flew into St. Louis and then boarded a bus for the two-hour trip to the base.

I was literally scared to death, convinced that upon arrival we would be lined up against a latrine and executed. Never mind that my father said it would be ineffective Defense Department policy to murder every new recruit. I still gave Mom a lock of hair.

There was no firing squad when we stepped off the bus, but we did have to do 25 pushups after one of our hirsute bunch called the duty sergeant a bad word.

They herded us to the reception center where we were told this would be our last night to possess that arch-enemy of democracy — a ponytail, and that the best way to survive basic training was to have a buddy.

I knew the military was one with baldness, and on the bus had a brief but emotional parting ceremony with my comb.

But what about this buddy business?

This wasn’t like college where several Abingdon High School classmates were enrollees. I was in the butt end of Missouri — two states removed from familiar landscape — and didn’t know a soul.

How do you make a friend? What should I say? Is back-slapping too informal?

I had no idea.

The kid in the next bunk was 40 pounds overweight. He would struggle in basic because of his girth. I would struggle because I had enough anxiety to fuel an aircraft carrier.

If that’s not enough common ground to be soulmates, I don’t know what is.

He grunted when I introduced myself and went back to sleep.

On the other side of the bay, I recognized a guy who talked on the bus about a trip he made to Virginia with family when he was a boy. I told him I’m a proud native of the Old Dominion and did he know that my state is known as the Mother of Presidents because eight — count ’em, eight — chief executives were born inside our borders.

“Who cares?” he replied.

I pretty much gave up after that. Probably no more than three or four guys in the platoon knew my first name at the end of basic. I’m sure nobody had any even semi-lasting impressions of me.

That two months and change was a horrible time, maybe the worst, although I did gain a measure of self-confidence because I was able to finish a hard thing.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but an important life’s lesson was learned. Yeah, I can have a half-decent life, but forget about receiving much, if any, nurturing from the outside.

That requires potting soil, and I’m somebody who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.