The “Korean Police Action,” as Truman called it, had been fought up and down that miserable peninsula for many bloody months and had come to a point where daily “success” was measured by how many North Korean and Chinese dead bodies had been created that day.  It looked as if it was going to grind on for years while negotiators moved the location of their “Peace Talks” from one place to another and argued about what shape table the negotiators should sit at.   I had graduated from high school the month before it started in June of 1950. 

When a young man turned 18 he was required to register for “Selective Service” or “The Draft.”  We were given a lengthy number to identify us because at that time guys were drafted “by the numbers.”  14-47-32-238 was how I was known by my local draft board and I can still rattle it off quicker than I can say my birthday.  Each set of numbers had meaning.  14 told what part of the country I was from and 47 was the number of my local draft board.  The next two sets were the ones most interesting to we who faced being drafted.  32 told them I was born in 1932 and 238 meant that when they began drafting guys born in that year I would be the 238th guy to be drafted.  There was no cockamamie “lottery” like they used for Viet Nam; the draft boards just marched on down their list by the numbers.  Once a month they drafted however many bodies were needed.  When your number came up, you went.  The only exception was guys whose draft boards gave them a deferment for college or family compassionate reasons.  To get a college deferment we had to get above a certain score on a standardized test.  Draft boards weren’t required to grant deferments; they just “could.” 

Naturally we were very interested in those last two sets of numbers.   When the shooting started my number was far down on the list.  I went off to Wichita State and didn’t give much thought to being drafted.  About 30 months later I became VERY interested.  The “32’s” were being drafted at the rate of around 30 guys a month. Each month I called and asked,  “What number are you on?”  The numbers, like soldiers, were unstoppable.  They moved ever closer to 238. 

I took the “Deferment Test,” got a decent score and took my “grade card” to my Draft Board to ask a deferment.  The lady who ran the Draft Board looked at my score, smiled and said, “That’s good.  We need smart men in the Army.” Gulp!   Doomed.  Korea, here I come.

Huge life changes, though, often hang on the smallest, most insignificant happenings.  One morning in April I was drinking coffee in the Student Lounge with a bunch of fellow music majors.  Our conversation centered on “The Draft.”  Melvin Pontious, a trombone player whom I remember clearly, said, ”I hear ‘The Fifth Army Band’ up in Ft. Sheridan IL is a good band but you have to pass an audition and enlist for 3 years to get into it.  That sentence was a life-changer for me.  As Caesar said about his trip to France, “I came, I saw, I conquered.  Six weeks later I enlisted directly into the Fifth Army Band.

Ft. Sheridan at that time was a beautiful Army Post located right on the shore of Lake Michigan about 30 miles north of Chicago.  I arrived there in September of 1953 after completing Basic Training in the Kansas Mid-Summer heat of Ft. Riley KS.  As far as the Army was concerned I was a soldier first, a musician second.  

The Korean “thing” ended in a stalemated truce while I was in Basic.   Happy Day!  But I was stuck in the Army for one year longer than if I’d been drafted.  However I was in an excellent band, on a nice post, near Chicago. 

In 1953 Americans still “loved” their military men.  Chicago had a huge USO Club right downtown on Michigan Avenue.  In a three-story building the top floor had a snack bar, nice overstuffed furniture,writing desks and a piano. The second floor was used for dancing, ping-pong and the like.  Additionally the downtown movie theaters sent complimentary tickets to the USO to be given to “the boys.”  And if we were in uniform we could go to other entertainment venues and get in free.  Most importantly though, the USO had GIRLS.  On weekends various churches around Chicago sent well-chaperoned, well-dressed young ladies to the USO to chat with and dance with “the boys.”  We were absolutely forbidden to take one of them out of the club and they weren’t supposed to give us their phone numbers.  Well, they were young and had hormonal impulses just as we did.

One Saturday afternoon I went into the USO in my “civvies” just to relax and while away some time.  Of course I scanned the girls.  One in particular caught my eye.  She was sitting at the piano playing Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” a piece I could play pretty well.  She was a beauty: Dark hair, sensual looking face and deep brown eyes.  I walked over to the piano and stood behind her while she was fumbling a little with “Beethoven.”  As I got closer I saw that she was wearing an attractive floral patterned skirt with a green blouse on top.  The blouse was not especially low-cut, but to a prurient-minded hormonal soldier it was low-cut enough to give me a nice view of God’s handiwork as I stood behind her.  I was instantly attracted to this lovely creature who was not only beautiful, she was also a musician.

Top:  Anne DeNicolo as she looked when I met her

Bottom:  Anne Carriker as she looked in her 65th year

She stopped playing, turned her pretty face up to me, smiled and asked, “Do you play the piano?”  With a sort of “Aw shucks” manner I said  “Yes, a little bit.”  She then asked if I’d ever played that piece.  I modestly told her “Yes, I fooled around with it.”  She asked me to play it for her.   What an opening!  Only God could give me a set-up like that.  I played “The Moonlight Sonata” for her with all the emotion I could muster.

After chatting a bit a sailor came along and asked her if she’d go downstairs and dance with him.  Being the good hostess she was supposed to be she left with him.  How depressing.  I stewed for a few minutes then decided, “Hey, he has no more claim to her than I have.”   I went downstairs where several couples were dancing, including that beautiful girl and that miserable sailor.  In those days it was okay to “cut in” when a guy was dancing with a girl.  You simply walked up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder and unless he was a complete ass he moved out and gave the girl to you.  I was running full steam on hormones by this time.  I cut in.  When the next song started we were dancing and he cut in on me.  That went on a few times then he gave up and left. 

Before leaving the USO that day I had arranged to meet her the next day, Sunday, here in the USO.  Next day I kept her away from other guys and got her telephone number.  Then my Guardian Angel threw a bolt of lightning.  Anne, I knew her name now, asked her chaperone, an Old Italian lady, if it would be all right if I took both of them home.  The old gal broke ALL the rules by saying “Yes.” 

And that was the beginning.  Two years later that beautiful girl and I stood on the altar of her parish church and exchanged vows which have never been broken.  Anne DeNicolo became Anne Carriker.  There were many rough, stormy roads and days ahead of us.  We haven’t reached the end of the story yet but when we do, it will be together.