LAIDLEY FIELD - 1965
by Dave Estep
…my stepmother's family had connections through the Mason's and Rainbow Girls.
After a series of verbal pushes and pulls, I was standing in the middle of the
neo-gothic rituals of initiation into DeMolay. I didn't feel really part
of the secret society, until I joined the DeMolay Drill Team.
The Drill Team was run by a retired veteran of World War II and survivor of
Peal Harbor. We practiced in the Charleston Civic Center parking lot on
Virginia Street in full blown khaki military uniforms with our M1 Gurands.
Our drills were chaotic at first, then with time we became one in motion and
stance. We were a real Drill Team.
The hardest part for me was understanding the modified utterances of
commands. Sometimes, while the Drill Sergeant was out front, facing
forward, I was unable to clearing hear the command. With time and
practice, I was able to anticipate his commands, flowing with the others, moving
as one.
Then one Sunday, while standing at attention in formation, the Drill Sergeant
announced that we will be marching in the Veteran's Day Parade. We became
excited! Thrilled with the idea that we will be marching, and
demonstrating our new found abilities. Our routines and moves were
sharpened with the expectations of our first real show.
On the morning of the Veteran's Days Parade, I stood ironing my khaki uniform
shirt, listening to the Dave Clark Five on the radio. I always thought
that they were better than the Beatles. Using steam and spray starch, I
carefully removed every wrinkle, setting the creases down the middle of each
pocket.
Standing in front of the mirror in my room, I aligned my belt buckle, just so,
along the gig line of my shirt, adding the final touch.
Holding my Class A hat in the crook of my arm, we stood talking, waiting for
the parade to start, when the command came. "Company, fall
in!", "Dress Right, Dress!", and then
"Parade, Rest," he followed, as we nervously waited for the command to
start.
"Company, a-tten-tion!" All four platoons snapped to
attention, sharply posting our weapons against our right leg, as the parade
began near the Kanawha County Court House. "Right Shoulder,
Arms!", "Forward, March," he said as we moved out in formation,
joining the parade.
Our feet hit the pavement with sharp cadence, echoing off the buildings as we
passed in front of Frankenberger's. Our company split into separate
platoons, by command, moving in four different directions, weaving ourselves in
and out, and back into formation in front of the New Library. (I can still smell
the roasted peanuts from the little Mr. Peanut store on the corner). We
smiled with pride as our precision drew applause from the dense crowd along the
sidewalks on both sides of the street.
After the parade was over, I walked home from downtown Charleston to Ruffner
Avenue and Washington Street, stopping off at Lang's Drugstore for a cold
fountain soda and a couple of hot dogs.
One of our demonstrations was scheduled for half-time during the Charleston High
School vs. Parkersburg Football game, …gulp!, I was nervous, and didn't
tell anyone that I would be marching during that game.
Half-time…Charleston High School is losing to Parkersburg….
My Uncle Paul sat in the bleachers watching, as the DeMolay Drill Team came
marching out onto the field. During one particular routine, the Drill
Sergeant moved toward the front, about thirty yards in front of my position.
He usually would be to my right, where I would be able to clearly hear all
commands, but this time he was way out
front. I could only predict the commands from routine repetition.
At the end of one routine, as a hundred times before, we always perform an
"about face", and march toward the rear. As everyone watched the
tight formation move in unison, a single team member, turned and
sharply marched in the opposite direction, away from the entire company.
I took about three or four steps before I realized that the entire company
was marching in the opposite direction across the field. I ran to catch
up, hoping that from that distance, no one would know who it was.
The stadium roared with laughter. God, I was embarrassed. As soon
as the company formation marched off field and disappeared underneath the
bleachers, I joined my Uncle to finish watching the game. He laughed and
said , "I knew it was you!"
John Barnett, number 45, my neighbor, was playing in that game. Even
though we lost, he was awesome, as usual.
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