In March 1943, shortly after I turned 18, I was inducted into the
Army of the United States and was transported quickly to the Infantry
Replacement Center (IRTC) at Fort McClellan, Alabama, for a gruelling
fourteen weeks of infantry basic training. It didn't take the army very
long to turn a city-bred Brooklyn boy into a toughened, disciplined,
combat-ready soldier. Near the end of the training period, rumors were
rampant as to which infantry division we would join up with, and to
which theatre of operations we would be sent. . . . . and at that
moment in time lady luck played a hand - and a very meaningful event in
my life occurred.
Reveille was trumpeted throughout our barracks area early one very
rainy morning in June, and we slogged our way out of our barracks
through the red clay of Alabama that had been turned into gooey red mud,
to line up in the company grounds. After roll call, we trudged towards
the mess hall for breakfast. As I passed the bulletin board my eye
caught my name listed along with two other names. "The following men
are to report to Company Headquarters immediately" . . . very unusual,
and somewhat disturbing to say the least. Why we three out of 240
soldiers? What did we do?
I reported to the company headquarters right after breakfast and
was told to report to the Dayroom two days later to take a written exam
that would take six hours to administer. When I asked "why only we
three?", I was informed that only the tree of us had army IQ scores 125
or higher. I still hadn't the faintest idea why we three were to take
the test?
In any event, two days later we marched into the Dayroom at 8:00
A.M., sat there for six long tedious hours answering grammar questions
and doing math calculations and problems ranging from fundamental
arithmetic through algebra, geometry and trigonometry, in a sweltering
and humid non-airconditioned Dayroom. I would rather have been outdoors
with my rifle squad on the firing
range. We finally finished the test and we were told to rejoin our
outfits. .. nothing more.
That experience was quickly forgotten in the excitement of our
final few weeks of training and anticipation of what combat division we
might be assigned to and which theatre of war - European or Pacific - we
might be shipped to.
Two weeks later and just one week before my company learned that it
was going to join up with a division destined for combat in North Africa
(and eventually Italy), I was called into Company HQ and was told to
pack my belongs and gear and get ready to board a train the following
morning. I was being separated from my Company and I was ordered to
report to the Registrar at the Universary of Alabama in Tuscaloosa,
Alabama. "No questions, soldier" I was told. "You will be given
further information by the Registrar when you arrive there."
Two days later, all alone (I don't know what happened to the other
two test-takers), lugging a big dufflebag, I wandered into the
Registrar's office and handed him a sealed envelope that had been given
to me when I left Fort McClellan. I was then told to return to the
dormitory to which I was assigned and told to check a certain bulletin
board every morning at 10 A.M. to see if my name was posted. . . nothing
more. On the third morning I found my name on the3 board. By that time
I was veru excited. What I read was: "Private Lester Segarnick; Bard
College, New York." I had no idea what that meant, nor where Bard
College was in New York.
First I ran to the college library and learned that Bard College
was a very small, 700-student, liberal arts private school located at
Annendale-on-Hudson, N. Y., about 90 miles north of New York City, my
home town! Then I ran to the Registrar who told me that I was to report
to the Commandant at Bard College for further instructions. When I
arrived at Bard along with about 600 other soldiers from army camps all
over the country, I learned for the first time that I was now in the
Armed Services Training Program (ASTP), Basic Engineering, an army unit
formed to train soldiers to serve in the Army of Occupation after the
Germans and Japanese had been defeated, to help in the reconstruction
effort after the war ended.
Thus, as fate would have it, I, a well-trained, physically fit,
combat-ready infantryman, finf myself removed from the dust and dirt,
clay and mud, rifle and artillery noises, and dropped into the midst of
a clean, quiet, pastoral and serene Ivy League college setting ready to
attend classes taught by the finest professors the government could
find.
One could almost guess the epilogue .. I corresponded for a while
with many of my basic training buddies who did ship oveseas to go into
combat in North Africa and later Italy. I soon learned that some were
killed in action, others were wounded, and some of my letters came back
marked "location unknown."
There is one additional oddity involved in this story. One of my
professors at Bard College was Dr. Franco Modigliani, then a young
teacher of mathematics, who inspired me to complete my college education
after the war and become a teacher too. This same Prof. Modigliani who
in 1943 was a young 25 year old teacher, is the same Dr. Franco
Modigliani who forty years later was honored as the winner of the 1985
Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Science.
