Ahead, immediately ahead, was San Diego. Boot camp. It was a three-day journey cross-country. Barney and I weren’t the only ones aboard over thirty, and a fair share of these recruits were in their twenties; but the bulk of ’em were kids. Goddamn kids—seventeen, eighteen years old. It made me feel sad to be so old; it made me feel sadder that they were so young. But so was the war, and, judging from the high spirits of its passengers, this train might’ve been headed for a vacation camp. Oh, it’d be a camp, all right; but hardly vacation. Still, the trip—particularly the first day or so—was filled for them with childish fun, yelling and pranks and waving out the windows at cows and cars and particularly girls. These kids had never been west before. Both Barney and I had, but just the same we sat like spellbound tourists and looked out the window at the passing scenery. As the farm country gradually gave way to a more barren landscape, it seemed fitting somehow. I was leaving America slowly behind.
