When I was about eight years old, I sailed over the handlebars of my bike one day and landed on my two recently-acquired, permanent, upper incisors - snapping them both off in sort of an inverted "V." Wow! My family carried on something awful - one of the dire consequences as I was then given to understand, was that I would "...never be able to go to West Point" now. Since I had no idea then, or for many years thereafter, what or where "West Point" was (we lived in south Texas) nor had there ever been any mention of same (we were, if anything, certainly not a 'military family'), I was somewhat mystified by my sudden removal from its rolls. But Life went on and the dentist "capped" my stumps with celluloid caps and cement, noting that any permanent repair must wait till my jaw was fully formed - 18 years or older.

Putting my disgraceful disbarment from "West Point" behind me, I lurched on through a sometimes uncertain boyhood - leaving occasional celluloid jackets stuck fast in a long line of corn cobs, apple cores and other such snares and delusions...

And so the draft nailed me at last when those 18 years rolled around. I was then in a current state-of-good-repair as to my incisors and so nothing was said at my physical exam. Since my parents had bemoaned the "exorbitant" cost looming in some not-too-distant future to put in permanent teeth for me, and not wishing to start life as bankrupt right off, this sort of gnawed at the back of my mind, too. And so, a larcenous thought began to take shape right then and there...

So for the physical it was "Don't ask - Don' t tell" - and I was, as we said in those times, "In - like Flynn" whose semantic origins I also know, but modesty stops my further rambling at this point.

And so matters stood for some time. I was inducted, went through Basic, and shipped overseas. And none the wiser. Truth to tell, I hardly ever thought of my teeth - they gave no problem and seemed just fine. Then one day - in the mess hall - it happened: I bit down on some offending morsel - and ping! - one of the incisor caps gave way, and there I was with a neat hole up front through which to (alternately) whistle and spit as best suited my mood.

What suited my mood best however, was to get it all fixed, so I put myself on Sick Call - to see the Dentist. A few days later the First Sergeant tabbed me and said I had been "cleared" and I was to report to the Dentist. I asked him where do I find the dentist - since I had seen no shingle hanging out here anywhere...

"Where do you find him?, said Sarge. "Where do you find him? - Well, Soldier, you find him where he always is and always has been - out at the end of this kraut field here they called their Platz - way down at the end there near the canal - he has a tent down there."

So I betook myself down to the Dentistry Tent. Sure enough, this Captain, I think he was - Dentist - and his assistants had a setup down here in the shade of couple old trees (this being the Fatherland, they were likely Linden Trees...Sigh!) and this is where they did business daily. Only - get this! - the "chair" was not in the tent today - the weather was fine you see - so his whole setup was al fresco ...out in the open! So I eased gingerly into his chair, checking out its configuration as I did. It was known as a "Field Station" dental setup, and the drill and all was activated by foot treadle: there were all these complex cords and belts, and the Captain would work his foot treadle faster and slower to make his drill go accordingly. It left a bit to be desired (by civilian standards!), but beggars - and draftees - can't be choosy, being sort of cut from the same cloth like you might say - so I settled back best I could to endure whatever...

"H-m-m-m-m," said the Captain. I could see he didn't really buy my story - more likely attributing it to a fast-stopped knuckle on some pal's right hand than a foot locker - whatever. But he continued: "This is very interesting. You see, back in Civilian life, they would cap these with celluloid caps and cement (I fancied he was studying my face for some kind of giveaway clue - but I played right along). "Is that right, Sir? Gee! What won't they think of next... (pause) Is that what you are going to do here...Sir?"

"No...no," said he. "You see my setup here - we - I - don't have the necessary parts - or materials as it were - this, like being wartime Germany you understand, to fix your teeth this way." My heart sank. I needed something, since any intake through my mouth caused a lot of pain to the nearly-exposed nerves...

"But don't worry," he continued, "we are going to fix you up fine! It's just that I don't see many fun challenges like this every day around here.... Now, here is what we are going to do, Soldier. I don't have any celluloid jackets in my Field Supplies Chest. But I do have cement! And I got an idea. What I am going to do, is drill two tiny holes in the remaining tooth stumps here - and then I am gong to inset a tiny sort of reinforcing bar into them - you know - a "rebar" - just like the 'rebar' in reinforced concrete in buildings!"

I followed him in theory at least, but some of the particulars escaped me. I was not to be in doubt long...

"You likely wondering what I am going to do for my "rebar" since I don't have any such special dental wire or anything like that around. And I was wondering too - but I think I got it!"

He looked at me from six inches away ..my mouth all agape... and a big smile spread over his face as he said,

"Paperclips!"

"Paperclips?" I gagged. I was not sure I was following him...

"Yes! Paperclips," he said. "I will snip them to size and they'll work great." He paused a bit and then seemed to say to no one in particular - not even me..."Jesus! I got paperclips here! You bet! Lots and lots of paperclips, you know. God damn Army - Hell, the whole thing runs on paperclips ... even Field Stations and Open Air Dental Setups... Bet the field troops can't dig foxholes without paperclips being involved..."

With that settled, he set to work. Of the treadle-operated drilling, I will forego the details.. leaving them to your own imagination. When he had his "rebars" set and cross-braced in the gap, then he packed in the cement. He was part dentist, part sculptor, and part genius I think (and only a Captain incidentally maybe).. He free-formed my replacement incisors and cut and ground them down and buffed them up and all by hand. He did a great job, that Captain did, and I returned that day to my outfit much restored and none the worse for wear.

There was to be one final chapter in the tooth disfigurement story that kept me "in the ranks" and denied me a (never sought!) career as a "West Point Officer." It came about thusly: we had returned to the States now, and were at Fort Dix, NJ waiting to be processed for Discharge. It was a couple weeks or so before Christmas. One morning the Sergeant came into the barracks and said, "I want you men to know that your papers are all being processed as fast as we can. You are all to be discharged "At The Convenience of The Government". (I always loved that touch: draftees you see, by contrast to regular army personnel, were always discharged "at convenience of the government" which somehow always had the air of chains being struck from the ankles of slaves or somesuch about it to me...).

The Sergeant continued: "With luck, the most of you men will be home for Christmas! And you will get about $200 mustering out money." Then he paused, "But if there are any problems with your records, this could hold you up and you might miss Christmas with your folks..."

This had the vague hint of a threat about it. The Sergeant went on: "Now Commanding Officer here wants to know if any of you men have any "service connected disabilities" at all. If you do, you are to sign this roster here and you will be sent for further Medical exams as soon as possible. (pause) Of course, you understand, if you make such claim, you will likely miss Christmas with your families, and have to spend it here on the Post... if not actually in the hospital somewhere (this latter sentiment uttered in about the same tone that Scrooge would have used to depict the same holiday...).

The threat thus revealed.

But I thought to myself... I could just take the Discharge and the mustering out money and run. Be with the folks for Christmas again. But Jeezul, I got to get these teeth put in permanent now soon 'cause if I'm not an adult by now - I'm about as close I think as I will ever get to being one anyway - and everyone has always said it is going to be big, expensive job and all and that would just wipe out my mustering-out money and maybe force me to borrow from pop even, and so on..."

So I talked myself into it.

The next morning when I went into the latrine, and no one in particular was paying attention, I put the handle of my toothbrush against my two incisors and gave the end a sharp rap. Out popped the two molded teeth the Field Dentist had put in months back, including the internal "rebars". I was back in business. At roll call later, I signed the roster for "service connected disabilities" and was shortly thereafter sent with other pariahs to a different barracks. Couple days later we were sorted out once again and dental cases were sequestered in yet another building.

Eventually I was taken up to the Base Hospital and processed through as a dental patient. One fine morning not long after I wound up sitting in the fanciest dental chair you ever saw (anyone ever saw!) with a big kleig light shining full on my face - like the suspect in an oldtime police interrogation. It was de javu all over again: first a Captain... then two Majors (!) - I could just make out their insignia dimly through the glare, and of course hear them speaking. They were elated (only way I can think to say it) with my "case"! They were going to fix me up with the super-duper permanent permanents of all time or so it seemed.

My misfortune was pure gravy for my "team" - as it was soon to be called.

The process went on for days. Now and then a Colonel's Eagles gleamed in the kleig light glare, too, and solemn voices of visiting potentates and various officers-of-dentistry sounded regularly in the constant huddle around my head. I was sort of "Exhibit A" of pride and prowess at Ft. Dix and how we send our boys home to civilian life again - better than they came in, by God! And so on and so on.

What they did in general was the first day they ground the remaining stumps down to some agreed-upon configuration. Now the nerves, yet alive after all these years believe it or not, throbbed with pain. Then they made hot melted wax (o-w-w-w-w-!) in situ molds of the stumps and these incorporated the final shape also of the ultimate adult incisor. Gone the rebarring and all that: I had fancy screw threads now they somehow incorporated here and new plastic glues and whatnot up the wahzoo. We made dental history that time! My jaws throbbed so I couldn't even bite down on a leaf of lettuce (for many weeks in fact!). But day by day the "team" grew more excited and more enthused. I was to gather that they broke some kind of ground here - the permanents were - in the end - synthetic resins or plastic - but some "state of the art" kind that would outlast their owner (!) and would permit of fully natural diet, including biting of apples, corn on the cob and similar trials of eating.

And so in the end - but post-Christmas - Sigh! - I got my new teeth at last, and kept my mustering out money into the bargain, and was soon reunited with my family. All in all, it was a convenient exit from the Service both ways: for them, and for me!

"I done my six years' service. 'Er Majesty sez: "Good day --
You'll please to come when you're rung for, an' 'ere's your 'ole back-pay:
An' fourpence a day for baccy -- an' bloomin' gen'rous, too;
An' now you can make your fortune -- the same as your orf'cers do."

No More Barrel!