Since my own Saturday nights had been spent on our base or a few times in El Paso just down the hill, some hut mates took an interest in seeing me experience Juarez.  Well, I obliged three or four and we stuck together for the night.  My first novel experience came when the need to piss came upon me.  In at least two bars I was directed to an open-air wall out back designed for that relief. The most memorable event was my pals setting me up to play the drums with a small noisy band, allegedly by paying them a US quarter.     I was as drunk as I would ever get and readily took my seat at the kit.  We played Deep in the Heart of Texas, a top hit of the day.  Built into the chorus at regular intervals was a break for four uniform hands claps.  At each such occasion I attempted a brief drum solo.  All went well for several choruses and the band as ready to stop, but I continued and the band picked back up.  Only when I got tired did we stop. 
I rejoined my friends and we somehow made our way b back to c amp in time to experience Bill’s return of the prodigal.

Chapter 4. . . .   The 279th Stateside
 I found myself a few weeks later, in mid l943, with the start up stage of the 279th Station Hospital Company at Camp Bowie, Texas.  Except for the officers and non-commissioned officers, we were almost all recent inductees l8 or l9 years old, and were assigned in groups of l6 to very simple hutments in this alkaline scrub country near the town of Brownwood.  We each had a wired-spring cot, arranged head to foot with about two feet between.
            On the first Saturday in Bowie we were to have our company's first general inspection, including sleeping quarters.  That Friday evening our hut's non-resident cadre man, one Corporal Chocol, directed us to prepare the Saturday-morning display: tightly made-up beds with gear arranged on top of the blanket, and all that.
         With my tendency to question and even rebel against authority, I considered some of this stupid, especially since we would be sleeping in our beds before the morning inspection.  Besides we were jam-packed in the small hut, getting in one another's way, and there weren't enough mops for every one to be mopping at once -- or so I reasoned.
         Other huts seemed not to be preparing at the same time as ours.  A few lads were out in the open tossing around a softball, and I joined them.  Two or three times Corporal Chocol or his hut-resident deputy came to tell me to return to the hut and get to work.  I said I would as soon as there was room, and I continued practicing pitching.  Finally, Corporal Chocol "ordered" me inside.   (Chocol strutted about as very “G.I.” and was fussy to the point that he had the creases in his army pants sewn in.)  But I pointedly had a few more casual tosses as he was leaving before complying.  Anyhow, it was getting dark. 
         Shortly after I was inside at work on my layout of gear, Chocol came in with Sergeant Fusco to whom Chocol was almost tearfully describing the extremity of my disobedience of his orders.  Fusco expanded on the horridness of my offense.  I unabashedly replied that this whole episode was stupid and un-American, and that this way of running an army was probably no better than that of the enemy Nazis, Fascists, and Japanese, which I wouldn't mind observing to see if my suspicions were true.  (Ah, the madness of youth)! 
           This seemed to really upset my superiors, who by then felt that this called for serious treatment by their superiors.  I was escorted to the slightly more spacious quarters of the senior Non-Commissioned Officers (Non-Coms) where the Company's First Sergeant arrived some time thereafter.  Sergeant Muratore just seemed puzzled at first, but then asked why I had behaved so "crazy," disobeying orders.  I paraphrased my previous criticism of the U.S. military as I found it, which sent him into paroxysms of Sicilian profanity, and he roughly ordered me to stop tapping my foot to the rhythm of a Glenn Miller tune on the hut's low-volume radio.  
         His puzzlement, now mixed with anger, seemed to have returned with greater force, and Muratore excitedly said that my rebellious behavior required the senior-most attention.  I was taken to the Company office, which had collected the sweaty heat of the July day, and where a few other Non-Coms loafed or drifted in, apparently having heard word of some bizarre uprising.  The Officer of the Day was sent for and soon appeared. 
         Second Lieutenant Reeder was clean-cut, just short of handsome, a recent graduate of a Texas university.  Throughout this meeting he affected a calm, open-minded curiosity about this strange young man who was so loquacious in answering the questions from all sides.  Reeder at times had to hold back the attempts at a grilling style of questioning by Muratore and other Non-Coms.  Muratore repeatedly demanded that I address the Lieutenant as "Sir" although Reeder said that wasn't necessary just now.  I said it impeded my "speeching" -- more madness of youth.
          I was at my most expansive and articulate and must have been enjoying the consternation and puzzlement I produced. This went on for some time.  Reeder's questions had given me the opening to expound on my whole philosophy of life, such as it was.  In the end he said the equivalent of "how interesting!" and asked that this odd fellow be assigned to his platoon when these were being organized. 
         After Lieutenant Reeder left, Muratore and the other Non-Coms were puzzled about what to do with me, since Reeder had left no further instructions.  They certainly felt that I should not be let loose on the 279th world, so they finally decided that I should be put under guard and taken for the night to the guard-house with the off-shift guards who were taking their turns from the Company roster.  As I was getting ready to go to bed, there appeared another sergeant who was known to be a person of great piety.  In the mellowest of cautionary words, he acknowledged my ‘pacifism’ but quoted the Bible on “rendering unto Caesar . . . “ As a believer in Christian ethics, I was briefly impressed.    
         The young guards, about my age, seemed startled to find this new phenomenon, a "prisoner," among them, and one whom they were ordered to hold incommunicado and watch.  Those near my guard-house cot ogled me from theirs, as if afraid to sleep.  I was still enjoying the ridiculous celebrity, and fell asleep before most of them. 
         The next morning I was taken, under guard, to get a fresh dress uniform from my own hut.  Then I was presented to the Company commander, First Lieutenant Thebault, in his office, which was on the other side of the plywood wall next to the area where I had been interrogated the night before.  Who knows what Thebault had been told, but this 30-ish officer came on glowering, with the Manual of Courts Martial strategically placed on his desk for my observation, opened at the section headed "Offenses Punishable by Death."  For the first time I was becoming intimidated -- and maybe I hadn't slept that well.  All I remember about this encounter was its ominous tone, and I was glad this time when it was over. I was returned to my original hut and told that judgment would be rendered soon.          A few days later at the first morning formation of the Company, the First Sergeant somewhat dramatically read out an order of "Company Punishment" and reduction from the rank of Private First Class for now Private Edgell for failing to obey orders.  This seemed to be getting strong emphasis as the first punishment for wrong-doing in the new Company, to make a forceful point, to dissuade any other potential miscreants.  Now I was a Company-wide celebrity.  Who knows what the rumors were, but I seemed to become something of an abused brother-man to many.
         My first punishment was to clean the stones from the drill field after its use at the end of that day.  After drilling, all of us were ordered to shovel and rake the stones into small piles all over the big field.  Then the rest were allowed to drift off, since this was the end of the formal duty day.  A truck was brought up and I was directed to shovel the piles up onto its open bed.  A few of the soldiers had lingered behind and began to help me.  When this was observed by a Non-Com, they were ordered off and I was thereafter closely watched to ensure that I worked alone.  But even the truck driver wanted to be pal-y. The work wasn't too onerous since I was in good shape and glad to show it off.  It continued until I was excused when darkness fell.
         The following day at the Company formation after lunch a huge rock was to be seen lying before us on the Company ground.  Sergeant Muratore read out a notice that, as part of my Company punishment, I was to break up this large stone with a sledge hammer and the small pieces were to be placed as bordering for the paths between the hutments.  It seemed expected that this task would fill out the rest of the week of my sentence. 
         But again, I meant to show them, by busting up this monolith as soon as possible.  I now realize that by a certain kind of common reasoning I might have more wisely concluded that I would be better off just dragging out the task for the full term.  But I was young, marching to my own rhythm section.
           I made a game of it, as practice for my baseball swing, and I attacked the monster with fulsome zeal.  I had not asked for gloves and none were offered.  At the end of the first day I had a few blisters.  On the second day, Muratore hauled me before the early Company formation and told me to hold out my hands, presumably as further discouragement to possible transgressors.  Then he, with mock generosity, said that I would be allowed bandages and to wear gloves from now till my week ended.  But I had already demolished almost half of the huge rock, and after the next day it was completely shattered.
          Since the location of the stone made my exertions clearly visible to several passersby during the course of each day, my mythical stature among the rank and file grew.  Many of the company wanted, some furtively, to be friendly.  My fame could only go down from this point as the real me was gradually exposed. 
            On the fourth day of my sentence, I was called out before the Company formation and embraced, almost joyously by Muratore!  Imagine my (and probably the others') surprise!  He then complemented me on how diligently I had worked at my penance, even how proud the Company should be about this example.  His whole performance was way over the top!  I was to be forgiven the balance of my sentence and accepted back into the warm bosom of the Company, and I was urged to apply my rumored softball skills on the Company team being formed.
          After a minimum of thought, it occurred to me that Muratore's superiors had taken in the wide, sympathetic response of the young soldiers to my treatment and enhanced image, and that our leaders now meant to show that they vibrated on the same humane wavelength. 
         Relieved of formal disgrace, I was assigned to work in the Company Supply Unit under Lieutenant Reeder, who showed no particular interest in me in my more hum-drum role for the more than a year that we were still together in the 279th.  But at this job I met another soldier, under Reeder, who became my best friend for the rest of my army days, and for some time thereafter. It was the somewhat older Sam Cherner with whom some further adventures were later shared.
            In full autumn we played in a touch football league.  As the team punter I collected two painful wrists when a burly opposing lineman broke through and hit my extended foot while I was still in the air after actually getting off the punt.  This sent me on a backward semi- cartwheel, trying to break my fall with my hands.  The next day I went on ‘sick call’ over the pain in both wrists.  The immigrant Jewish Dr. Captain who spoke barely understandable English simply had me taped up and sent back to duty in the Supply Room.  The pain for the left wrist got progressively worse when I tried to use it for one week before I again went on ‘sick call.’  This time it was x-rayed.  A few days later I was told that the X-ray was nor clear enough and so it had to be repeated, and this time was found to be broken at the navicular.  This got me a cast and the usual gang’s signatures or obscenities.  It also got me gratefully excused from going on
a chilly field bivouac of a week by the rest of the Company. But, perhaps because of the delay, the wrist was not set right and it has a strange look to this day.  But somehow its frequent pain was never too much for me.   For years I taped it before sports use.
             One of my best friends during these training days was Bob Meyers, a street smart kid from Chicago who also played on the football team.  While the rule of play was “touch,” the line play and blocking was fierce, In one such effort of mine, the blockee laid his knees into my ribs to such effect that t was painful to breath deeply for several days.  Meyers was a lineman and was built like a fireplug.  In late autumn he and I had taken overnight passes and the bus to Dallas.  We just sort of wandered around, went into a few bars and got a little drunk.  But we had made no provision for overnight quarters.  At about midnight this realization struck us with no fall back plan.  Our first improvisation was to get on a streetcar and hopes to ride all night.  But after an hour or two the car went out of service and we were back on the street, now in a residential neighborhood.  Seeing no salvation, we found an empty lot and wrapping ourselves
with newspapers ineffectively against the nighttime chill, we tried to sleep.  But we had awakened some neighborhood dogs and their barking seemed endless.   I remember shivering till dawn when after some wandering we somehow found the bus back to camp, appreciating its security and a Sunday off as never before.  
            I still had the cast on when we boarded the train for the unknown destiny of Camp Miles Standish between Boston and Providence.  It was a slow three day journey.  When I got my turn at the lower bunk in the ancient Pullman, I hardly slept for looking out the window for wonders.  Our smoky train took us through the streets with the fancy iron work of New Orleans and endless miles of featureless swampland after that.  When one opened the car windows, bits of soot from the puffing engine wafted in when the wind was right.  
            At the end of the train ride there was plenty of snow and it was very cold in the standard double tiered bunks barrack.  We tried to keep the large cast iron coke fed stoves going and tolerated the smoke and particles that floated up.  After carefully protecting my cast for weeks during ablutions. I finally let it soak and tore it off in the shower, even though was supposed to last for another week or two.    Somehow Christmas passed with hardly a notice in those last days before shipping out.  Sam and I did spend a day each in Boston and Providence.  Chapter 5. . . . .Over There Our troopship the Spartanly refitted peacetime liner, Argentina, entered the Firth of Clyde on the darkest of January nights, gliding slowly past the dark humps of islands and headlands, and near the huge, ghostly shapes of what must have been a large part of the Allied Forces' navies. When we awoke at anchor the next morning, I was surprised to see the mild soft green shores of Greenock, Scotland. Surprised, because we had left snowbound Boston on our troopship some twelve days earlier, as part of what seemed an endless convoy, patrolled by destroyers regularly speeding by, and we seemed to be heading generally north even though zigzagging. Then I recalled my school learning about the warming Gulf Stream. I had been miserably seasick most of the trip. Upon landing, we were herded toward the compartmented railway coaches of Great Britain, snatching unappetizing meat-paste sandwiches and milky-tea from NAAFI girls along the way. Once underway, the train slowed quite frequently and stopped completely near several gloomily lit stations along the route. The whole country seemed blacked-out, a dark, silent land. Finally, in the very early morning hours, our cars arrived at a siding near what I later learned was the village of Govilon on the Welsh borderland. At first there seemed to be only a flickering of numerous flashlights in the otherwise pitch darkness. Once we alighted, my eyes focused on a line of miscellaneous, undersized -- some seemed improvised -- 'pick-up' trucks. Ladies of mixed ages, each wearing a similar sort of uniform cap, were scurrying around, the flashlights in their hands the only illumination.