In high school civics classes we were taught that Indianapolis was “the Crossroads of America”. It was an assertion that I felt debatable. Indianapolis was, in 1972, a sleepy city, with limited prospects, in my book. “Nixonomics” had taken their toll, and as a recent high school graduate the best jobs available to me dealt with pumping gas and stocking groceries. College was out of the question, given the socioeconomic status of my family.
I thought I was reasonably intelligent; I could not accept a life of pumping gas and repairing tractor tires. This presented me with a dilemma: how to escape this sentence of boredom. I found my solution as many other young people did: I joined the Army.
My thinking was clear, or so I thought. I never gave a thought about the current social acceptability of being in the service. It seemed to me to be a clear way to further my education and escape a stifling situation. The war in Vietnam was winding down, and I felt that physical danger would not be a major factor. I never thought that I would be in any other kind of danger. I had spent the summer in an Indiana National Guard unit, which I had joined as a means of deferring most of the dangers of the draft, since I had received notice that spring that my “number was up”, so making arrangements to transfer to the regular Army was fairly easy.
I duly reported to the examination station on West Washington Street to be inspected, injected, and otherwise poked and prodded. All was proceeding according to plan until early in the afternoon.
“Jern!” This from a Sergeant, poking his head in the door.
“Here.” I delayed my response, a little surprised at being singled out of the group.
“Grab your packet and follow me. They want you in Special Section.”
“What’s wrong?” I followed the now noncommunicative NCO down a maze of hallways. I took a seat in a plush waiting room, very unlike the spartan decor of the main reception station. The NCO disappeared, leaving me to quake in my boots for what was probably the requisite amount of time. After about ten minutes, a door opened down the hall and I heard a voice.
“There he is.” I looked up and saw a Lieutenant Colonel poking his head out the door.
“Send him in.”
I got to my feet and followed the NCO down to the Colonel’s office. I opened the door, frightened, not knowing what to expect. Had I been disqualified for something horrible in one of the examinations?
“Mr. Jern? Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
This came from the Colonel, who was engaged in a phone conversation. While he was thus engaged, I took a look around his office. It was far from the spartan look I had learned to expect from the military. Wall to wall carpeting, a stereo and color TV were a few of the accoutrements.
The Colonel finished his phone call and leaned back. He was a short, scrawny man with a ridiculous pair of eyebrows that made him look like a cross between Don Knotts and Groucho Marx. He picked up a sheaf of papers in front of him, and rummaged through them. “You have some unusual test scores here” he opined, concentrating on one sheet.
“Is that good or bad?” I was still sweating this out. I felt hot and a little flushed. I began to think that the Army was a bad idea, or that I was about to be accused of cheating or some other major criminal activity.
“Very good, actually,” he remarked. I began to breathe a little easier.
“We are always on the lookout for people like you.”
“We who? What is all this about?” I was still in the dark, although I felt a little relieved, seeing that I was not to have my as-yet-unworn epaulets ripped from my 18-year-old shoulders.
“We would like you to consider the ASA enlistment option. We try to select applicants from the top ten percent of enlistees, based on entry-level testing and screening.” He leaned back waiting for my answer.
“What is the ASA?” A natural question, or so I thought. Keep your options open.
“ASA stands for the Army Security Agency.”
“What does the ASA do?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you that.”
This was not exactly the response I was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”
“The exact functions of the ASA are classified” he explained, “although I can tell you that it is excellent duty. A lot of people would give their eyeteeth to have this opportunity.”
I pondered this for a moment. “What happens if I decide not to join the ASA?”
“Nothing. You can just go back to the main group and take your chances with the rest of them.”
“My chances? What do you mean?” I was interested, now. There seemed to be an indirect threat of unsettling consequences in the Colonel’s manner of speaking.
“Simple. As an enlistee, you take your chances with assignments and duty stations. If you choose the ASA, you will be guaranteed certain schools and options if you qualify.” The Colonel was pouring on the hard sell. He went on at some length, pointing out various advantages of his organization.
“What do I have to do to qualify?”
“You must pass a background investigation by the FBI and qualify to receive a Top Secret security clearance.” The Colonel lit a cigar and sat back. I thought quickly. What was all this stuff with the FBI and secrets? I was just a few months out of high school and perhaps not ready for all this.
“What happens if I sign up and don’t qualify?” I asked.
“You would be reassigned according to the needs of the Army, like any draftee. With your test scores, though, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Look at it this way, you don’t have anything to lose by signing up. If you don’t measure up to our standards, you’ll end up in the same place that you would have anyway.”
“I need to think about all this. Would it be all right if I slept on it and let you know tomorrow?” I was being bombarded with too much, too soon. The Colonel nodded and the interview was over for the time being.
After a few formalities, I was out the door and walking to the bus stop on Washington street, watching my breath in the cold December air. That night, I went out to the local K-Mart and bought a canvas overnight bag and sat in the coffee shop and thought about my options. The Colonel’s offer sounded too good to be true. I didn’t think of myself as anything special: I just wanted to get the hell out of Indianapolis and see someplace else and learn some skills. Why did he want me to join this mysterious ASA? What was this ASA all about? What on earth would I do with a Top Secret clearance? For that matter, what was a Top Secret clearance?
I couldn’t answer my own questions, and knew no one to turn to. I got in my trusty 1964 Pontiac and drove around in a blue funk, chainsmoking the ashtray into a state of submission. The next morning, I got on the bus, having the foresight to leave my car entrusted to my mother. I was still in a quandary, and my appointment was only forty-five minutes away. As the bus passed a theater, I looked up to see the owner putting up the marquee for the next movie. It was a 007 flick. I took it as an omen. If they could offer, I could accept, and treat it as adventure.